To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
by Burked
Summary: GS Sara's not acting herself, and a body shows up after the crime. Is she responsible?


Title:                 To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Author:             Burked

Rating:              PG-13, just to be safe

Disclaimers:      I have no rights to CSI

A/N:                 Many thanks to my intrepid beta and partner-in-crime, Mossley.

* * * * *

Streaks of multi-hued light trailed like satin ribbons as she floated down the corridor, the voices in the halls and labs sounding tinny and far away.  People would look at her and smile in slow motion, passing by her with a delayed swoosh.

_Where am I?  What am I doing here?    _

A song's refrain was playing incessantly in her head, the lyrics unintelligible to her now, though she was sure that she had known them once.  It wasn't the words that held her hostage, but the music.  It had a repetitive strain that she couldn't get out of her mind.  

_Oh, I remember now.  This is the lab.  I work here.  I need to be here – it's important work.  _

She instinctively headed towards the break room, but the last thing she wanted was to sit in the room waiting for assignments, especially once she saw that there were three other people in there.  She'd be trapped, perhaps forced to try to communicate with her co-workers.  She had found it increasingly difficult to even formulate sentences in her mind.

She ducked into the Microscopy Lab, its dark interior providing the sanctuary she was seeking, not only from the people but also from the lights, their brightness hurting her eyes and their apparently random movements confusing her.

I just need to rest a few minutes ... I'm so tired I can't think straight.

Standing by the lab bench, she slowly inched backwards into the farthest, darkest corner of the room, feeling herself being enveloped by the darkness like a warm blanket.  She slid down the wall slowly, curling her legs up when she reached the floor.  Wrapping her arms around her legs, she felt cocooned.

Time stopped, but the music kept playing, trying to drive her mad, she feared.  She clutched at her hair, growling at the unceasing noise in her brain.  She clamped her eyes shut, willing the music to stop, or at least change, but she couldn't remember any other song at the moment.

She thought that she could hear something in the background, but it could have been the music, or perhaps some sound from the outside that had followed her in here, seeking to deny her the peace she sought.  

Every nerve in her skin was screaming, and even the feel of her clothes on it was painful.  Her eyes flew open wildly when something touched her shoulder, sending waves of shock through her body.

"My God, Sara, what's wrong?"

She could see him only in shadowy profile, the light from the hallway flooding her eyes from behind him, making her squint.  It wasn't so much that he was there, as it seemed that he silhouetted what was not there – the epitome of not-thereness, a phantom that seemed like a black hole that drew in the light, quenching it.

She felt even more pain as the specter grabbed both arms, trying to pull her up.

"That hurts," she breathed out shakily, jerking back from him.

"Are you sick?" he asked, putting a hand to her forehead.  "Sara, talk to me.  Tell me what's wrong."  Gil Grissom was trying to sound calm and firm – a man confidently in control of the situation, whatever it might be.

She could hear that he was talking, but she couldn't quite make out what he was saying.  By the time she'd decoded one set of words, he'd moved on to another, losing her.  

He seemed to grow smaller, receding into the light that was streaming through the door.  Perhaps the light was winning the battle with the black hole, drawing it into itself, quenching the darkness as the specter has once quenched the light.

Paroxysms of agony seized her as the world exploded like a supernova.  She flung her arms across her face in a vain attempt to block out the excruciating brightness.  Something was tugging at her arms, apparently trying to force her to endure the torture of the light.  She wrestled, but her strength waned almost immediately.

"No," she wailed mournfully, trying to free her arms from his grasp, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut.  Her mind was trying to reconcile how nothingness, a shadow, could have substance and be so very strong.

"Come on, honey, let's go to the hospital," he said, sliding one arm under hers and the other under her legs.  She became even more disoriented as the room shifted and she was looking at the ceiling, facing the source of her greatest torment, the lights.

She used what strength she had to roll her head in towards him, but she was still being taunted by floating images of blazing incandescence in her mind's eye.  She felt as if she were floating through the hallways as if on The Dead Sea, where it is almost impossible to sink.  

Occasionally her eyes would roll open, and a few times she caught a glimpse of faces, this time contorted and frowning – bizarre and misshapen like faces in a carnival's house of mirrors.  

The undulating images made her feel nauseated and she twisted back towards him, looking up at his face.  As before, the illumination behind him hid his features in the shadows.  She began to believe that he really was a shadow and not a man at all ... a shadow man.

At first the thought had frightened her, but then she began to hope that he was carrying her away into Shadowland, where there was no light to bedevil her.  She closed her eyes and turned closer into him.  Perhaps he wasn't there to torment her, but to rescue her from the land of unceasing light and pain.

With her face buried in the crook of his neck, she found there was something familiar in his scent, but she couldn't place it.  But it was comforting to realize that she somehow knew it.  

The cool night air hit her face and she opened her eyes, smiling at the darkness outside.  She felt the pangs of separation when the Shadow Man disconnected from her, laying her down somewhere soft and dark.  

She could see the colored streamers of light left in her mind by the streetlamps and neon signs as she felt her resting place begin to move, but she could tell that she was somehow separated from the lights now, that the Shadow Man was protecting her from them.

* * * * *

"How long has she been like this?" the Dr. Clifford Russell asked Grissom.

"She had the last two days off and I was off the day before that."

"How was she the last time you saw her?" Dr. Russell asked, seeing immediately that he would need to be specific in his questions.  It was obvious that the man who'd brought the patient wasn't an effusive talker.

"She'd been working a lot.  She was tired the last time I saw her, but she seemed okay."

"So the problem might have been beginning then, for all we know," Dr. Russell said.  

"What problem?  What's wrong with her?" Grissom asked, his face furrowed, feeling that he should have known something was wrong days ago.  She had looked so wan and tired the last time he had seen her, almost four days back.  He had thought that resting for a couple of days would restore her.

"We don't know yet," the doctor said.  "We've administered Narcan."

"Narcan?  Isn't that to reverse narcotic overdose?"

"Yes.  Look, Dr. Grissom, it could be something like Ketamine or PCP – they cause dissociative states like this.  Or it could be any of a number of other things, but Narcan isn't going to hurt her, and if she's ODed on a narcotic or opiate, it could save her life."

"Sara doesn't take drugs," Grissom said firmly.

"It could have been an accident.  Maybe some medication she's on," the doctor said, trying to be supportive.  "Sometimes people forget they've already taken their meds and take more.  Once they're impaired, they sometimes take even more."

"She's not on any medication that I know of, but we'll check.  What else could it be?" Grissom asked, instinctively wanting to make a mental list of possibilities, just as he would any crime he was investigating.

"It could be a seizure disorder.  Or a blood sugar imbalance.  There are dozens of medical conditions that could cause this disorientation.  It could also be psychological – a psychotic break of some sort.  We've drawn blood and urine samples for tests and have put a rush on them, but it could be hours until we know anything.  Some of the tests won't be completed for perhaps days.  I wish I could tell you more, but I can't right now," the doctor said, putting a hand on Grissom's shoulder, but dropping it when he felt the shoulder stiffen.

"Can I see her?" Gil asked unemotionally, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his mask of indifference.  He'd brought her here thinking she was sick.  The lack of a firm diagnosis was beginning to make him uneasy.

"Not right now.  There are a lot of people in there already, getting her hooked up to an EEG and an EKG, starting an IV of Ringer's Lactate.  Once everything's settled down, I'll let you see her a few minutes."

"Thank you.  I'll be right here in the waiting room," Grissom sighed, collapsing into a chair once the doctor had retreated back to the treatment room.  He dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers roughly into his hair.  

How did I miss this?  Was she sick the last time I saw her?  She was exhausted.  She was pale.  But I've seen her that way before.  What else did I miss?  She seemed agitated, but that happens when you're on a hot case, and you're working one double after the next.  What happened the last two or three days?

Pulling out his cell phone, Grissom dialed Catherine's number.  She answered on the first ring, her voice showing that she'd already seen who was calling and was anxious for news.

"They don't know what's wrong with her.  I need you to go to her apartment.  Turn the place upside-down.  Search her locker.  Examine her car.  See if you can find anything ... anything at all to at least give us a clue as to what's going on."

"What am I looking for, specifically?" she asked, perplexed.

"Drugs, medication, chemicals, anything."

"Drugs?  You've got to be kidding me!  Sara?  You know she doesn't take drugs.  Besides, we're all screened randomly."

"It doesn't matter what I know, or what you know.  All that matters is that they don't know what's wrong, and we haven't seen her for days.  Something's happened to her and I need you to help me find out what."

"Can I take the boys, or do you want this to be kept a secret?" she asked.

"Yes, you can call them in, too," Grissom agreed.  He knew that Sara would likely be furious that they'd all invaded her privacy like that, but Gil was beginning to feel a sense of desperation at the dearth of information, and was willing to take any abuse she wanted to give him later, as long as she was all right.

"Gil, is it possible she'd do this to herself on purpose?" Catherine asked as gently as she could.

"Take drugs?" he asked, confused.

"No, Gil.  I mean, hurt herself.  Do you think she's capable of that sort of thing?"

"Of course not!  Why would she?" he blurted, not taking the time to consider.

"She hasn't been happy for a long time.  There was that thing with Hank.  Then the accident at the lab.  And, um, other things not working out for her," she added vaguely.  "Maybe she's depressed."

"How was she the last time you saw her?  Did she seem depressed to you?" he asked anxiously, forcing himself to entertain the possibility.

"I saw her three days ago.  She seemed ... I don't know ... a little weird, but sometimes Sara's that way.  You know, withdrawn, quiet.  She seemed a little hyper, but tired at the same time.  I don't know how to describe it."

"So that's why you called me at home," he nodded, though there was no one else there to see the gesture.

"Yeah.  To tell you I thought maybe the case was getting to her."

"I called her and told her to take the next two days off," he said absently.

"Yeah, and she did, which is a little strange in itself.  But I thought everything would be all right, that all she needed was a break.  Gil, were we supposed to know this could happen?"

"I don't know.  I keep asking myself that.  When did it start?  Why didn't I see it?  Why did I let this happen?"

"You can't blame yourself," Catherine said reassuringly.

"Then who's to blame?" he asked guiltily.  "I am the supervisor, after all.  I'm supposed to notice these things."

"I don't mean to be cruel here, but that would mean you'd have to notice her.  And, frankly, you haven't been paying too much attention to her for a while.  Do you think this could be about ... you?" Catherine asked cautiously.  

"I don't know," he sighed.  

"Did something happen between you?  Something you're not telling me?"

"Nothing lately."

"Are you sure?  Maybe something that doesn't seem like a big deal to you, but might to Sara."

"I don't know.  I never seem to know.  I still don't understand why she wanted to leave over the hamburger thing," he sighed morosely.

"It wasn't the hamburger, Gil.  You know that," Catherine chided him gently.

"Look for a note, or any other sign that she might ..." he said, starting strong, but trailing off.

"Oh, God," Catherine whispered.

"Hurry, Catherine," he urged, hanging up the phone.

* * * * *

Where am I?  What is this place?  Who are these people?  Why are they torturing me?  Did I do something wrong?  Please, Shadow Man, please find me.  Take me out of this hellhole.  Take me to where there's no light, where the only sound is your voice, the only smell your scent.  There's something so familiar about your scent. 

The two women would move in quick bursts, so fast that their images flowed and blurred, snapping back into shape when they would still themselves a moment.  They sometimes ignored her, poking buttons on machines that let out yelps of their own pain.  Sara felt sorry for the devices, knowing what they were enduring.

When the she-devils wearied of torturing the equipment, they would turn their evil sights on her.  She couldn't move her hands, and looking down, wide strips of white nylon were grasping her wrists, holding her in place.  She was trapped and couldn't move, just as in some of her worst nightmares.

One of the succubi did something excruciatingly painful to her hands, piercing her flesh.  She could see something snaking from each of her hands up and behind her, coiling and undulating.  She feared the sinewy creatures would inch their way into her, taking over her body, or at the very least, feed on it until they were fat and satiated, leaving nothing but her skin hanging limply on her bones.

_If I cry, will they feel sorry me and stop?  Will they be satisfied that their torture worked?  Or would it make them worse, egging them on?  _

_Where are you, Shadow Man?  Is there some way to summon you?  Some prayer, some chant?  _

"Shadow Man," she breathed out helplessly, pulling at the straps that held her hands in place.  She tried to kick herself free, but something was holding her feet fast.  Tears began to form up in her eyes, and she looked in panic at the two demons dressed in blue.

"Please," she whimpered.

"Just relax, sugar.  Everything's going to be all right," Susie Betancourt purred soothingly, laying a hand gently on Sara's arm.

She's coming towards me!  What's she going to do?  If I could move, I'd wipe that evil grin off your face, bitch!  You don't know who you're screwing with.  

Sara roared and began thrashing her head and her torso wildly.

"Start with 10 milligrams of diazepam," Dr. Russell said.  Susie picked up a syringe and drew the medication, injecting it into the IV.

"If she's still like this in fifteen minutes, give her 10 more."

A comfortable numbness began to settle on Sara, like the warmth and peace that a stiff drink brought.

They're killing me, Shadow Man.  They're letting the worms or snakes or whatever they are take all my strength.  Please hurry!

"She's starting to settle down now," Susie said to the other nurse, Alicia Potts, who nodded without looking up, writing on Sara's chart.  

* * * * * 

"I can't tell you what it is, but we know some things it's not.  It's not blood sugar – that was the first and easiest thing to rule out.  Her blood sugar is on the low end of normal, but not low enough for this kind of reaction.  She probably just hasn't eaten in quite a while."

"That could well be," Grissom nodded.  

"Her blood count was normal, so it doesn't appear to be from an infection," Dr. Russell continued.

Grissom nodded, mentally striking out possibilities. 

"We're pretty sure it's not from any kind of sedative," Dr. Russell explained, sitting next to Grissom in the waiting room.

"How do you know?  It hasn't been long enough to get back any tox results," Grissom asked, not meaning to sound as challenging as he did.

"Her heart rate and respirations are high, despite her apparent lethargy.  She became very agitated and we had to give her some Valium.  Even after that, her pulse is at 110."

"What are you doing about it?"

"We're pushing two IVs of  Ringer's.  It should help dilute the concentration of whatever she took to cause this.  Hopefully, she'll excrete it quickly," the doctor answered.

"I still don't believe that Sara knowingly took any drugs," Grissom said firmly.

"As I said, maybe it was an accident.  You guys are exposed to all sorts of drugs and chemicals, right?"

"That's a possibility," Grissom nodded.  "But she's had years of lab experience.  She knows how to protect herself."

"That's assuming she knew what she was dealing with," Dr. Russell countered.

"True.  When can I see her?" Grissom pushed.

"She's relatively calm now.  You can go in for a minute or two, but if she becomes agitated, you'll have to leave.  Understood?"

"Understood," Grissom nodded, pushing himself up from his chair.

Slipping through the curtain that boxed in her bed, Grissom was momentarily stunned.  He'd known what to expect, but he still wasn't prepared to actually see it.  Electronic leads were snaking out of her hospital gown, and there were IVs running into the tops of both hands.

He looked quickly at the monitors, noting that her pulse was fast, but regular.  He wasn't an expert at electroencephalograms by any means, but knew in general what a normal EEG looked like, and the wild perambulations on the screen didn't look good to him, but he knew it was better than no spikes at all.  At least her brain was functioning.

"Sara?" he whispered, not knowing if she were asleep.

"Shadow Man?" she answered, hearing the familiar voice.  She slowly opened her eyes, glad to see that it was his profile in the near-dark, and not one of her tormentors.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked, moving gingerly to the side of her bed, mindful of the equipment that surrounded her like palace guards.

"Please help me," she whimpered, trying to move her hands to reach out for him.  The edge of the nylon restraint was beginning to wear the skin raw at her wrist.  They hadn't expected to have to keep her restrained;  the nurse has promised to get some lambs wool to protect her skin from further damage.

"I'm trying, honey.  We all are.  But we've got to know what happened, why you're like this," he said, frustration seeping into his voice.

"Please," she moaned again, pulling harder at all of her restraints.  

Grissom glanced at the monitor, a growing sense of fear as her heart rate began to climb.  It was at 122 beats per minute.

"Sara, calm down," he said lowly, trying to sooth her.  He reached across the wires and tubes to stroke her hair.  Her pulse went down to 115, but he could still see the fear in her eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, concerned that she was afraid of him for some reason.

"Shadow Man," she answered weakly.

"What?" he asked, leaning down to try to hear her better.

"Shadow Man," she repeated.

"Sara, it's Grissom.  Do you recognize me?"

"Help me get out of here," she said, the sentence taking all of her concentration to formulate and speak.

"I will.  I will.  Just as soon as you're feeling better," he cooed at her, letting his fingers trail from her hair down to her face.

"Excuse me," Alicia said to Grissom, smiling.  She reached over to hang a different IV, disconnecting the Ringer's Lactate.

"What's that?" Grissom asked, straightening up abruptly, putting back on the face he showed to the outside world.

"Phenobarbitol in D5W," she answered, picking up the chart to note the time.  She adjusted the drip rate on the pump, ensuring that the dosage wouldn't exceed 100 milligrams per minute.

"I've got to go now, Sara.  They've given you something that'll help you rest," he said.

"No!  Don't leave me!" she said excitedly, her voice for once over a whisper.

Grissom looked over at the nurse who shrugged and smiled.  

"No reason you can't stay, as long as she's calm," Alicia told him.  "I'll find you a chair," she said, disappearing through the curtain.  They had to rearrange some equipment to make a place for the chair, then the nurse began to log the readings on Sara's charts.

"They say I can stay," he reassured her, smiling when he saw her pulse begin to drop.  Her breathing slowed and he looked expectantly at the nurse as she noted the EEG signals.  

"She's going to sleep," the nurse said, looking up kindly at Grissom.

He had just sat down next to her bed when he felt his pager vibrate against his side.  Peering at the dimly lit screen, he saw it was Catherine, and stepped into the hall to return her call.

"What'd you find?" he asked as soon as she answered.

"Nothing really.  Over-the-counter stuff, and less variety of that than most people have.  No prescription medications at all.  Nothing that could explain this."

"Did you find ... uh ... anything else?"

"You mean like a note?  No, no note.  She keeps an online journal, Nick discovered.  He just read the last entry.  Nothing to indicate that she was ... um ... suicidal.  He didn't feel comfortable reading any more, unless you want him to.  She hasn't paid her bills, cleaned the fridge, watered the plants or any of the other nonsensical things suicides often do right before they ..."

"That's fine," Grissom sighed, relieved that at least she didn't seem to have done this to herself purposefully, or at least he hoped it proved that.

"Yeah, well, that still doesn't tell us what happened," Catherine reminded him gently.

"Backtrack her movements the past few days at work.  See if anything pops out."

"Will do."

"Thanks, Catherine," he said tiredly.

"Hey, how you holding up?  You gonna be okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said too calmly.

"How's she doing?" Catherine asked, realizing that his false bravado indicated that he was more worried than he let on.

"They've sedated her, so she's sleeping now.  Catherine ... she doesn't even seem to recognize me."

"Gil, sweetie, she's going to be all right."

"I hope so," he exhaled, leaning back into the wall.

"I know so.  She's strong."

"They had to restrain her.  She keeps begging me to get her out of here.  Catherine ..." his voice went silent when words failed him, as they so often did.  The fear and worry was beginning to wear on him, making it harder to hide his feelings, especially from someone he'd known for so long.

"Gil, it's gonna be okay.  She's asleep, right?  She'll feel better when she wakes up.  You'll see," Catherine said, hoping she was right.  "You've got to get some rest yourself, while she's asleep."

"I don't need to rest."

"Try.  You need to be sharp when she wakes up.  Maybe she can shed some light on all of this."

Gil hung up without farewells when he heard a commotion.  Rushing over to the door he saw Susie and Alicia moving quickly to Sara's bed.  When he slid through the gap in the curtain, Sara was wide-eyed, straining to get free, her head and chest lifted up off the pillows.  

"You'll need to leave, sir," Susie said over her shoulder.  

"Don't leave me!" Sara shouted out.

"If he can calm her down, let him stay," Alicia murmured to Susie.

"I think it was just a nightmare," Alicia told Grissom.  "I don't know if she's prone to them, but some people get them on phenobarb."

"Occupational hazard," Grissom said heavily, trading places with Alicia to stand near Sara's head.  He leaned down, stroking her hair to calm her, the simple connection between them making him momentarily forget that they weren't the only two people on earth.

"It's okay, Sara.  I'm here if you need me.  Go back to sleep."

"To sleep, perchance to dream," she murmured groggily.

Hamlet.  He was contemplating suicide, whether 'to be or not to be.'

_"To die,—to sleep; To Sleep!—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause."  But you're not going to die, Sara.  You didn't try to kill yourself.   ... Did you?_

"Don't worry, Dr. Grissom, she'll sleep.  She can't help but sleep on the phenobarbitol," Susie assured him.  

When the nurses left, Grissom settled back down in the chair, rotating it to be able to watch her monitors.  Her heart rate and respirations slowed, but were still somewhat above normal.  He looked over at the EEG, watching the waves flatten out and become regular as she fell into deep, non-REM sleep.  

Watching the undulations of the EEG was almost hypnotic, and Grissom began to feel sleepy, the exhaustion born of fear catching up to him.  He laid his head on the side of the bed and drifted off.

"You want to sleep with me?" 

_"Did you just say what I think you said?"_

_"That way, when I wake up in a cold sweat under the blanket, hearing Kaye's screams, you can tell me it's nothing.  It's just empathy."_

Not knowing immediately whether it was part of the dream or reality, Grissom was awakened abruptly by Sara's loud groan.  She was breathing rapidly and her pulse shot up again.  He quickly looked at the EEG to see that her brain waves were spiking erratically.  

_REM sleep.  She's dreaming.  Another nightmare, evidently_.

Grissom reached over to stroke her hair, shushing her anguished moans.  

"Oh my God!  Greg!  Somebody help!"

Her eyes flew open and she lifted her head and shoulders off the bed, gasping.

"Fire!  Fire!" she shouted, her eyes still not focusing on reality.

"It's okay, Sara.  Just a dream," he said soothingly, gently pressing her shoulder to push her back down to the bed.  "There's no fire.  Greg's okay.  Go back to sleep."

The accident – the explosion.  I should have guessed that she still has nightmares about that.  I do, too, sometimes.  Dreams of glass and fire and blood.  The cold fear in  my stomach when I saw Greg lying dead-still in the glass.  The relief when I saw her sitting on the curb.  Other than a few cuts, she was all right.  Or at least I wanted to believe that.

For the next few hours it was a constant cycle:  Sara would sleep for twenty or thirty minutes before she would start to dream.  All of her dreams were nightmares, eventually waking her up.  The difference this morning was that the phenobarbitol made her go back to sleep.

Grissom would manage a nap during her quiet times, sometimes having nightmares of his own, though rare being awakened by them.  Instead, he was roused by her sounds of terror once or twice an hour.  By the time the sun came up, he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

"Where am I?" she asked groggily.

"In the hospital," Grissom answered, hoping her question indicated the return of at least some coherence.

"Why?" she murmured, trying to lick dry lips with a dry tongue.

"I found you incoherent at the lab.  Do you remember?"

"I'm so tired," she mumbled, drifting away from consciousness, neither hearing nor answering his question.

"Then sleep," he said softly, a wave of relief washing over him.  He wanted to believe that whatever it was had passed.  Now all she needed was to rest.  Still, the investigator in him demanded to know what had caused her meltdown.

* * * * * 

"We've got a problem," Catherine said gravely.  She knew he'd want to stay with Sara at the hospital, but this was too urgent to wait.

"What now?" he asked heavily.

"We were backtracking Sara's cases this week."

"And?"

"And, uh, something turned up.  A body."

"Catherine, I'm tired.  I don't want to play word association games.  Just tell me what's going on."

"Now you see how we feel half the time," she snorted.  "Okay.  Five days ago she worked with Vega on a meth lab bust."

"Methamphetamine.  That could have caused Sara's problem," Grissom mused.

"Yeah, well, Sara's initial problem is important, but now she's got a bigger one."

"You lost me."

"The body, Grissom.  I found a dead guy at the crime scene."

"How long has he been dead?"

"That's for you or Robbins to tell us.  Guy was crawling with bugs.  Looks like longer than a few days to me, but I'm no entomologist."

"So you think that he was already there, when Sara processed the scene?  Vega would have seen him."

"Yeah, he would have seen him, except he wasn't there with her all the time.  She apparently went back to the scene alone after the initial call.  She brought in some more evidence with collection times on them after the scene was sealed.  Vega wasn't there – no-one was.  I'm processing the scene now, but considering the importance of this, I thought you'd want to be here."

"I'll be right there," he said, looking towards the door to Sara's room.  They'd moved her to a regular hospital room after she'd been stabilized.  She didn't know the difference yet, still being asleep, but it was a lot more comfortable for him.

He eased through the door quickly, not wanting the light from the hallway to wake her.  He wanted to look at her as she rested; it was so rare that he ever saw her looking so peaceful.  He found the tightness in his chest disconcerting, as he fought the urge to touch her.

Stopping his rogue hand before it reached her face, he turned abruptly to leave.  

"Grissom?" she called out weakly.  "Is that you?"

"It's me," he answered, returning to her side.

"Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital.  Do you remember anything?"

"Not really.  A lot of weird dreams.  Or I think they were dreams.  Nightmares mostly," she said.  "How did I get here?"

"I brought you," Grissom answered.

She chuckled, closing her eyes briefly.  "So you're the Shadow Man."

"Who?" he asked.

"Never mind.  I guess I was really out of it," she said, her mouth feeling like it was filled with cotton.  "Is there any water around here?" she asked, trying to focus in the near-darkness.

"Hang on," he said, moving over to the bedside table to pour her a drink.

"Damn!  Look at me.  I look like Neo from _The Matrix_," she said, examining all the tubes running into her body.

"The what?" Grissom asks.

"_The Matrix._  It's a movie," she answered.

"Oh.  I don't go to many movies," he said uncomfortably, wondering if she went to see the movie alone or on a date.

"I'm on a first-name basis with the clerks at the video store," she said.

"I see," he said, his smile warming.  He set his hand down on the bed near her arm, but not touching her.  As she shifted slightly they came into contact with each other.  He allowed himself to enjoy it for a moment before pulling his hand off the bed as unobtrusively as possible.

"Wish I had a couple of good videos now," she said, breaking the momentary silence.

"You need to rest," he said, sounding more paternal than he'd hoped to.

"I am tired.  I haven't really been sleeping well," she admitted, yawning broadly.

"How long since you slept well?" he asked, knowing he should get to the crime scene, but also feeling that their conversation could reveal important clues as well.

"I slept a little this weekend ... An hour or two, I think.  Yeah, but not well.  I kept waking up from nightmares and weird dreams." 

"Always the same dreams?" he asked.

"No.  I don't think so."

"Did something happen on a case recently to upset you?" he asked, careful to sound curious rather than accusatory.

"No, not that I can remember," she said, slowly rocking her head on the pillow.

"What did you work on last Thursday, when I wasn't there?"

"Liquor store hold-up, with Nick," she said, smiling.  "Catherine can be brutal when you're not there," she said.  "There weren't any trick rolls, so she had to make do."  

"Maybe I've spoiled you," he teased.

"Not likely," she shot back, with a raised eyebrow.

The smile slowly slid from Grissom's face, the banter drying up in his throat.

"Sorry, Grissom, I didn't mean anything by it," she offered with an apologetic smile.

He shrugged and offered a half-grin to her.  "It's okay.  I had it coming," he said unexpectedly.  "I've got to go.  Catherine called me about a DB with bugs."

"That should be a lot more fun than sitting around a hospital room," she said.

"I can stay if you need me," he offered.

"Right!  There's a dead body with bug evidence, and you're going to sit in a hospital room and watch me sleep?  Somehow I doubt that!"

"Sara," he said, the pitch and tone of his voice lowering and softening, "I'll stay if you want me to."

She strained in the semi-darkness to read his face.  He didn't avert his eyes, and she could tell that he was being serious.  

"No.  Don't be ridiculous," she chuckled.  "I'm just going to go to sleep, and I don't need a babysitter!"

"You can call me if you change your mind," he offered.

"Sure.  That's fine.  Go have fun with your bugs," she said, her eyelids starting to droop as she smiled her goodbyes.

"Sara ..." he said uncertainly, his hand on the door handle.  "I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, disappointed that the words seemed so much less significant than the feeling.

"Thanks, Grissom.  You better go before you make Catherine mad.  I can tell you that she's not someone you want to piss off!"

"I can tell her to leave you alone," he offered.

"Don't you breath a word I said!  That would make it 10 times worse!  No, I can deal with it as long as I know it's just her, and not you."

"Did you think I had something to do with it?" he asked seriously, stepping back into the room a few paces.

"Well, you've been kind of mad at me for a while, so I thought maybe you told her and that's why she's been such a bitch lately," Sara said.  Normally she wouldn't have been so open with him, but the combination of too little sleep and the phenobarbitol had loosened her lips.

"I wasn't mad," he replied, a tic in his neck slightly jerking his chin to the side for a second.

"Oh, okay," she said, too tired to argue the point.

"Really.  I wasn't mad," he repeated, sensing that she didn't believe him.

"I said 'okay'," she repeated, not sounding any more convinced than the first time.

"Sara ..."

"You better get going before all the maggots turn to flies and buzz off."

"I'll come back when I'm done."

"That's okay – you don't have to.  I plan on sleeping.  When I get up, I want out of here."

"Don't you think it would be wise to wait until the doctor finds out what caused the problem?"

"I think that getting less than two hours of sleep in five days was the problem, Grissom," she said, yawning into her hand.

"Sleep Deprivation Psychosis," he muttered.  "It typically begins manifesting after four to five days with insufficient REM sleep, though it's variable, of course."

"If you say so.  It's all kind of a blur to me.  You remember the song 'Comfortably Numb'?"

"From Pink Floyd's 'The Wall'," he nodded.

"It was kind of like that."

"I have that record on vinyl," he added.

"I don't doubt it," she replied, her smile fading as she drifted off.

* * * * *

"So?" Catherine asked, as Grissom made his third perambulation around the body.  He took out a meteorological thermometer with a large digital read-out, measuring the temperature of the air at body level, a few feet higher, and at face level.  

He scanned the room, walking over to the air conditioner thermostat, noting its setting. He looked up at the top of the room to note the locations of the air conditioning ducts and the direction of the flow from each.  He held the thermometer under each, documenting the temperature as it initially entered the room.

The curtains were open at the windows, with dozens of flies, most shining with a blue or a green sheen, swarming against the warm panes.  He took the air temperature there as well, entering it into his notebook.

"Thinking of becoming a meteorologist, too?" she asked, pointing at the sensitive thermometer.

"Hmm?" he muttered, hearing her question, but not processing the words into any meaningful discourse.

"What's with the weather report?" she asked testily.

Grissom turned, his face furrowed in befuddlement, until he saw her point again to the device.

"Oh.  Temperature is one of the main determinants of the maturation rate of insects.  It's part of the linear regression analysis," he answered pedantically.

He pulled out a plethora of small jars, capturing flies in mid-air with a short-handled net, picking maggots in various stages from the body, and harvesting eggs from the victim's mouth, nose and eyes.

"_Calliphoridae_," Grissom muttered.  "Third instar," he said, holding up a long, squirming pupa.

"And that means ...?" Catherine prodded.

"Blowflies.  He's been dead four or five days," he said succinctly.  Grissom walked back over to the windows, holding a spray bottle filled with denatured alcohol.  He quickly sprayed towards the panes before the flies could scatter.  They immediately fell immobile to the floor.

Examining each before dropping it into a larger jar, he began to look confused.  "A few _Musca domestica_.  Mostly _Calliphoridae_.  Where are the others?" he asked looking around.

"Other what?" Catherine asked, perplexed.

"Other flies," he answered.

"Seems like there are plenty of flies in here," she said, shooing several away as they buzzed annoyingly around her face.

"In number, yes.  In variety, no," he countered.

"And that means?"

"I'm not sure yet," he said, returning to the body.  Taking out a magnifying glass and his flashlight, he examined the body and clothes of the man.  He slowly rolled him on his side, looking both on the floor and on his back.  A few brown beetles skittered away before Grissom could react, finally snatching one up with his gloved hand before he let the body roll back to its original position.

"Hmm," he intoned.

"Hmm?" Catherine questioned.

"That's odd.  Not impossible, I presume.  But definitely odd."

"What!" Catherine barked, losing patience.

"There are Staphylinids, but few Dermestids."

"English!"

"Beetles.  Staphylinids feed on fresh corpses.  Dermestids on decomposed corpses.  If this man died five days ago, as it would appear, where are all the Dermestids?  Why did the Staphylinids get to the body so late?"

"So what you're saying is that the maggots say one thing, but the flies and the beetles say another?"

"Essentially," he nodded.

"Which one is lying to us, and why?" she asked.

"I don't know yet," he answered, gathering his specimen jars into a large grocery sack.  He gestured for Catherine to follow him, as he went outside.  Once they were alone at the back of his Tahoe, he cocked his head, eyeing her before he spoke.

"What?" she asked pre-emptively.

"Catherine, is there something going on between you and Sara?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" she countered tensely.

"I'm not asking as a friend, but as the supervisor," he said, making his voice more authoritative.

"She's just been getting on my nerves, especially lately.  She's hard to get along with, stubborn, distant."  Catherine stiffened, pushing her hair behind her ears against the wind.

"Like me," Grissom said rather than asked.

"Yeah, whatever.  But she's also too cocky, so sure she's always right."

"Like you," Grissom added.

"She's the teacher's pet, and can seem to do no wrong," Catherine said with a huff, making Grissom stare at her wide-eyed, wondering where she'd been the past year.

"What, precisely, do you mean by that?" Grissom asked, his eyes narrowing to suspicious slits.

"Come on, Gil. You handpicked her. You didn't even consider any other applicants. She's young.  Pretty.  Worships the ground you walk on.  What do you expect people to think, especially since she dropped everything to get here the same day you called her?"

"I expect them to think that she's a good CSI, that we'd worked together before, and that I trusted her to be able to hit the ground running.  And all of that has proven to be true."

"Yeah, whatever," Catherine snorted.  "I guess that's why you've been ignoring her ever since she first became friends with that dumb-ass Hank."

The tension of the past day, along with little rest, added fuel to the inferno that had been building in him with every word.  Until today, he might have tried harder to keep it in, but worry, exhaustion and Catherine's defiant look lit the short fuse.

"Since when did she get any special treatment?" he asked.  "Did she get Holly Gribbs killed?  Did she gamble on CSI time?  Did she screw up and let a civilian know who a suspect was, getting the suspect beaten half to death, and the civilian put in prison?  No, all of that was Warrick, the guy Sara thinks is the 'teacher's pet', as you call it.  

"Does she have the lowest solve rate on the shift?  Did she open her big mouth to the press and tip off a serial murderer that we were closing in on him, making him change his MO, costing more lives?  No?  Oh, yeah, that was Nicky.

"Did she get a man killed by telling tales that should have been kept secret?   Did she blow up the lab?  Did she compromise evidence and let a murderer walk?  No, that was you."  

"Where's your list?  Or are you perfect, too?" Catherine barked.

"My list?  I'm responsible for everything any of you do, so my list is the longest.  Not to mention all of the incredibly stupid things I've done all on my own.  No, I'm not leaving myself out of this," he said, smiling sardonically.

"See?  You seem to think Sara's perfect," Catherine said heatedly.

"You still haven't told me what you think she did wrong!"

"Nothing!  She hasn't done anything wrong, okay?  She's perfect in every way.  Harvard-educated – no doubt on a full academic scholarship.  Young, with practically her whole life ahead of her.  Great at her job.  Never screws up bad enough to get into trouble.  Doesn't have any responsibilities to hold her back.  Didn't get saddled with some asshole man to treat her like shit.  Oh, wait, I take that last one back," Catherine smirked, looking pointedly at Grissom.

At first, Gil was struck with the bitterness of Catherine's invective towards Sara, but her last jibe was obviously directed at him.  He wished he could argue the point, but he knew he couldn't do it with any integrity.  

But in the midst of his hurt and anger, another thought began to coalesce.

"Is this really about Sara?" Grissom asked, the anger in his voice gradually being replaced by empathy.  "Or is this some sort of mid-life crisis?  Because, if it is, I can relate."

"Hell, Gil, I don't know!  All I know is that every time I'm around her, I get pissed off.  Maybe you're right.  Maybe she just reminds me of things I don't want to think about."

"I think she'd be surprised to find out that you're envious of her.  I doubt she's feeling quite the success you make her out to be ... and much of that is my fault," he added honestly.

"This could _all_ be our fault," Catherine said heavily, rubbing her forehead nervously.  "Gil, remember when I asked if you thought that she could hurt herself, and could it be about you?"

"Yes," he sighed guiltily.

"I know I told you my motto about never looking back, never regretting, but I've been thinking – what if my attitude towards Sara was the straw that broke the camel's back?  I don't know how I could get past that."

* * * * *

"Doc, don't take this the wrong way," Catherine said, plastering on the least fake smile she could muster.  "But it's really important that you do a really good job on this one."

"I heard about Sara," he said, nodding that no offense was taken.

"There is no way she offed this guy.  No way.  But it may very well be up to you to prove it."

"Catherine, all I can do is my job.  The evidence will show whatever the evidence shows."

"I know.  I just mean, um, be sure to look at everything.  Grissom has already gotten evidence from him that contradicts other evidence, so everything may not be what it appears."

"Got ya," Robbins said, calling David over to begin taking pictures of the body before they began to undress him.

"Be careful when you bag the clothes," Catherine said to David, who blushed slightly and darted a glance over to Dr. Robbins.

"Catherine, you need to trust us to do our jobs, unless you have some reason to believe that we are either incompetent or want to get Sara into trouble," Robbins said, his cool blue eyes seeming to turn a steely gray.

"I'm sorry, Doc, David.  I just ...  Oh, hell!  Let me get out of here before I've got both of you mad at me, too," she said, smiling an apology before shooting out the doors.

"What does she mean by 'too', I wonder," David said.

"Guess she managed to piss someone else off," Robbins shrugged, slipping on a pair of amber goggles before turning on an alternate light source to scan for obvious trace evidence.

"Catherine?  No!" David teased.

"I know.  It's hard to believe," Robbins snorted, pulling a long, brown hair from the victim's shirt.  "What have we here?" he asked, holding out a hand towards David, waiting for a bindle.

"Brunette.  Like Sara's hair," David said morosely.  

* * * * *

"Did you find out anything?" Grissom asked Dr. Russell as both men converged in the hallway outside of Sara's room.  It was just after noon, and the doctor had popped in during his lunch break to check on her progress.  His office was in a medical complex just across the street.

"Nothing so far.  The tox screen for common drugs of abuse came back negative.  Screen for opiates was the same.  Blood chemistry is within normal tolerances.  For a woman in the hospital, she's relatively healthy, other than her weight."

"Her weight?" Grissom asked.

"It's not normal for a woman to have such a low body mass index.  It can cause metabolic disturbances."

"How low?" 

Looking at the chart, Dr. Russell flipped to the second page to find the intake information.  "Let's see, she's 32 years old, five feet nine inches tall and weighs 104 pounds.  At a bare minimum, she should weight 20 pounds more.  Most women her age and height would weigh about 40 pounds more, especially if they were active and had some muscle mass."

"Muscle is denser and weighs more than fat for its volume," Grissom reminded himself.

"Does she have an eating disorder?" Dr. Russell asked, fixing Grissom with an unemotional stare.

"Not that I know of.  She's vegetarian – that much I know.  We can't eat at crime scenes or in labs, so she may go ten hours or more without eating if she's on a hot case."

"You don't allow breaks for eating?" Dr. Russell asked incredulously.

"Of course I do!  Look at me.  I obviously find time to eat," Grissom said self-deprecatingly.  "Sara gets a little intense sometimes.  Forgoes eating and sleeping."

"You may have to start enforcing breaks," Dr. Russell said, making notes in the chart next to her weight.

Grissom chuckled, slowly shaking his head.  "Tell you what.  _You_ tell her to take better care of herself.  But warn me before you do it, so I can get clear of the blast radius."

"I take it you've had this talk before?"

"Several times.  It was never pretty."

"Good thing she's not trying to have kids right now.  Low body fat inhibits ovulation and subsequent menstruation.  She could have a hell of a time getting pregnant," the doctor noted absently.

"That may not be an important issue to her," Grissom suggested.

"An excessively low body fat interferes with the synthesis of estrogen.  Estrogen affects more than just ovulation and menses."

"Heart disease.  Osteoporosis," Grissom said, becoming concerned.

"Exactly.  If she can't gain weight for some reason that I can't fathom, perhaps she should be on hormone replacement therapy," Dr. Russell suggested.

"Soy has isoflavones that mimic estrogen," Grissom countered.

"I've read that, too, though I'm hardly an expert in natural medicine.  I'm going to schedule a nutritionist to see her before she's released."

Grissom nodded and pushed through the door.  "Hey, how're you feeling?"

"Like I have a hangover," she said, reaching for the pitcher of water, frowning when she saw it was empty.  

Wordlessly, Grissom took the pitcher and left the room.  In a moment he was back with ice water almost to the rim.

"My hero!" she chortled, taking a cup from his hand.  There was no way to grab it that didn't involve touching him – not that either of them minded.

"What is my superhero name?  Oh, yes, Shadow Man," he laughed.

"There, but not there.  More conspicuous in his absence than his presence," she added without thinking, downing the last of the small cup of water and taking some refreshing chips of ice into her mouth.

"Symbolic?" he asked, surprising her.

"Not purposefully," she said apologetically.  "I seem to keep saying the wrong things around you.  Maybe I should take a vow of silence."

"Or maybe we should talk about it," he said nervously, pulling up his chair.

"I don't think I'm up for it," she said hastily, pulling the sheet up high on her chest and smoothing it down, merely to have some distraction.

"We can't keep avoiding the issue, Sara."

"Why not?  We've been avoiding it for years – at least I have.  What's a little while longer?" she said, not meeting his eyes.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately ..." he began uncertainly, shifting in his chair.

"That is your forte," she said.  "Thinking."

"We do what we do best," he said in his own defense.

"When it comes to our ... uh ... relationship, or whatever you call it, you think without acting.  I act without thinking.  Bad combination, I guess," she said heavily.

"Or a good one," he offered.  "Creates a balance of yin and yang."

"We can never get on the same page, though."

"Doesn't mean we never will," he shrugged, a hopeful smile pulling at one side of his lips.

"Are you hitting on me, Grissom?" Sara asked, finally turning to look at him.

"Is it that hard to recognize?"

"Yes.  I've thought you were flirting in the past, but was wrong."

"What makes you think you were wrong?"

"Because you'd get mad when I flirted back, and then ignore me."

"I wasn't mad.  I already told you that."

"Then what do you call it?" she asked pointedly.

"Scared maybe.  Not mad," he admitted.  Grissom knew that they would have to have this conversation sooner or later, but it didn't make it any easier.  It was as painful to expose his emotions as it would have been to slowly flail away his flesh.

"What are you scared of?" she asked.  "I'm not a Praying Mantis or a Black Widow," she chuckled.  "Haven't killed and devoured a mate in a long time."

Grissom smiled in appreciation of her entomological reference, recognizing that she was trying to reach him in a way he could relate to.

"I'm not scared of you.  I'm scared of me.  I'm not very good at relationships, it would seem.  I don't want to hurt you."

"Too late for that," she muttered, turning her eyes to the window and away from him.

"Could have been worse.  If I tried and failed, you'd leave.  Or it might impact your career."

"You'd do that to me?" she asked, her face openly showing her shock.

"Of course not!  Not me.  Someone else.  If anyone found out," he answered quickly.

"Oh.  How would anyone find out?  It's not like you're Mr. Talkative."

"You can't work that closely with a group of trained investigators without them figuring things out," he retorted.

"They haven't figured _you_ out," she countered.  "Nobody has.  Nobody ever will.  Certainly not me."

"What's to figure out?  I'm just a science geek who's not good with people," he said, as though that explained everything.

"I think there's more depth to you than that," she replied, her tone softening, the slight bitterness leaving.  

"Not to change the subject, but we need to talk about why you're here," he said.

"We already did, didn't we?  I just haven't been getting any sleep.  I'm feeling a lot better now.  They give good drugs here," she teased.

The reference to drugs shot through Grissom like a jolt of electricity.

"Sara, the tox panels came back negative, but you and I both know they can't test for every drug in existence.  Did you ... um ... have you been exposed to any drugs lately?"

"Grissom, just because I'm from San Francisco and I told you about my brother smoking pot years ago, doesn't make me a drug user!" she said angrily.

"I ... I ... didn't mean it that way," he sputtered.  "I meant exposed ... like on a case.  Sometimes contaminants are in the air, or they are absorbed through the skin."

"You better have meant it that way, or I'm going to be severely pissed at you!  You know, come to think of it, I did do the scene at a meth lab bust almost a week ago."

"They're screening for meth metabolites now," he said.

"So you already knew about that," she said slowly, emphasizing each word.

"Yes.  Catherine was backtracking your cases, trying to find a clue as to why you got ... sick."

"Catherine was investigating me?" Sara asked uncomfortably.

"Not really investigating you, per se.  Well, I guess so, in a way.  We were worried."

"Was she in my apartment?"

"Yes.  She and the guys processed it.  And your locker and car, too," he said guiltily, waiting for the explosion he had expected for over a day.

"God!  Now I guess I know how innocent suspects feel!  Nothing like having everything in your life scrutinized.  I assume you didn't find anything probative."

"No, we didn't.  Not really.  Just over-the-counter medications.  I'm sorry, but we had to try to find a reason for ... this," he said.

"Tell me, Grissom.  How would you feel it you found out that all of us went through your house, your office, your car?"

"I'd feel ... exposed.  Embarrassed.  Maybe even humiliated," he said quietly.

"Yep.  That about covers it," she said tersely, turning away from him abruptly.  "I hope you had a warrant."

"No.  We weren't looking for evidence of a crime.  It wasn't official."

"I could have them charged with breaking and entering, or at least criminal trespass," she muttered.

"You could," he agreed.  "Of course, they were only doing what I directed them to do, so you should report me, not them."

"Just leave me alone.  I'm not in the mood to talk to you right now," she said leadenly.

"I guess I really screwed up.  But it was only because I was so worried.  It ... you ... matter to me.  I'm sorry," he said, trudging towards the door.

"Grissom?"

"Yes?" he answered, turning to look at her over his shoulder.

"Will you be back?"

"If you want me to come back," he answered hopefully.

"I'll see you later, then," she said with a tension-reducing sigh.

Grissom didn't know what to say, but his relief was palpable.

You always do that.  How do you do it?  I can't seem to let personal things go that quickly.  I have to process them, work through them.  You just feel them, deal with them, accept them and move on.  I wish I could learn that from you.  You always forgive me, but I have to wonder how long that'll last.  

"I'll be back after I see Al about a body," he finally said, resuming his slow trek to the door.

"Okay.  I'll nap until then," she said lightly.

"Good.  See you later," he said, finding it difficult to take the final step out of the room.

"Later," she answered, just as unwilling to face the loneliness of an empty room.

"Bye," he said, pulling the door open, then turning to look at her again.

"Go!" she laughed.

"Okay," he said, smiling.  "I'm going."  But he didn't move.

"You said that five minutes ago!"

"You seem awfully anxious to get rid of me," he said in mock-hurt.  "Got a hot date?"

"Yeah, you nailed it," she nodded.

"Who's the lucky guy?" he asked teasingly.

"No one you know.  As a matter of fact, no one I know either!"

"Ah!  A mystery man!"

"Maybe Shadow Man," she said, with a mischievous grin.

"If I see him, I'll tell him you're waiting on him," Grissom offered.

"Tell him I've been waiting a long time.  Time's almost up."

"I'm sure he'll find that very motivating," Grissom said, turning more serious.

"Only if it matters to him," she said with equanimity.

"I'm sure it matters," he said, walking back towards her much more resolutely than he had walked to the door.

"The door's that way," she laughed, lifting an intubated hand to point towards the exit.

"I know.  But you're this way," he said.

Grissom took a deep breath, holding it several seconds before exhaling.  He leaned over quickly and kissed her gently on the forehead.  He turned without words, striding quickly out the door.

I can't believe I did that.  I didn't even say anything.  Didn't even look at her, afterwards.  God, I'm bad at this!  If she ...  If I ...  If we do date, she'll know just how bad at this I really am, if she doesn't know already.  She'll ditch me in no time ... they all do. 

Grissom pushed the thoughts out of his mind.  He needed to know what Robbins had found so far.  

Why didn't I tell her about the body we found?  I should have questioned her about it.  Gotten her side of the story.  

Or was she incapacitated enough to have an altercation with the vic and not remember it?  I should have asked about it.  Why didn't I?

_Probably because I didn't want her to think that I believed that she killed him.  Look at how she reacted to our investigation regarding her health.  How would she react to find out we're investigating a murder, and she's the only suspect so far?_

* * * * *

Sara stared at the door, as though she had x-ray vision.  "What was _that_ supposed to mean ... if anything?" she asked aloud.  

Don't do it!  Don't read anything into it.

_But what about the things he said?  Sounded like he's interested._

_Uh huh.  Been there, done that.  _

_Yeah, but he was very open about it.  Open for him, at least._

"What's going on in that brain of yours, Shadow Man?" she sighed, closing her eyes, allowing herself to sink into slumber.

Cold dead eyes stared unseeing into hers.  Blood surrounds the girl on the pavement, grocery sacks scattered around her.  Just a kid.  Just a kid.  Too scared in life to put away the scum that had come back to kill her.   

She sat up suddenly, gasping and pulling at the EKG leads attached to her body, setting off multiple alarms on the machines and at the nurses' station.  A small Filipino nurse came running into the room, then ducked back out, yelling down the hallway.  In a moment she reappeared, holding a syringe.

The Nurse Supervisor and a large male aide came rushing in with Nurse Manzano.  The two restrained Sara's arms while she injected the diazepam into the IV valvecock.

"Miss Sidle, calm down," the older nurse said firmly.  "No one's going to hurt you."

"Get these things off me!" Sara barked.  "I want out of here!"

"You'll feel better in a minute.  You probably just had a bad dream," the Nurse Supervisor said, walking over to the EEG and pulling up a history of the past ten minutes.  "Yep.  See here?  REM sleep.  See this?  Nightmare."

"Duh!  I know I had a nightmare!  I want to be released ... now!"

"We can't release you now, Miss Sidle.  You've been medicated.  You can't leave unless someone comes to take you home."

"Get the papers ready, then.  Because I _am_ going home today," Sara said resolutely.

Come on, Grissom.  Don't take too long.  I need you to come help me get out of this place.  

Sara settled back into her pillow, seeming to chuckle lightly at something she was thinking.

Come rescue me again, Shadow Man.

* * * * *

"Hey, turn that up," Warrick said, pointing at the TV.  "Isn't that the meth lab Sara worked last week?"

The middle-aged blonde anchor cut back to a reporter standing in front of a run-down house surrounded by crime scene tape.

"Earlier this week, the LVPD raided an alleged meth lab on a tip from a suspicious neighbor, who reported odd activity and strange chemical smells coming from the vicinity of the house."

The picture cut over to a tape of the earlier raid.  Several policemen, Detective Vega and Sara were standing by the door of the lab as an officer padlocked it and sealed it with crime scene tape.  

"At the time," the reporter continued, "the department reported finding large quantities of methamphetamine, the dangerous chemicals used to make it, cash and weapons.  Today, a body was found at the same location.  Police have not released the name of the deceased, pending identification and notification of family members.  At this time, the LVPD is not saying whether the death is related to the original drug bust."

"Wait.  Did you see that?" Grissom asked.

"See what?"

"Warrick, call the TV station and get us copies of both tapes," Grissom said excitedly.  The much needed coffee could wait.  He wanted to talk to the Medical Examiner.  Besides, he had better coffee, as Grissom reminded himself.

* * * * * 

"Albert, I need two things," Grissom said, as he burst through the doors into the morgue.

"I live to serve," Dr. Robbins retorted dryly.

"First, I need a cup of really strong coffee," Grissom said, energized by the hope that they would soon be able to piece together a timeline on the drug dealer's death.

"Over there," Robbins pointed with a bloody gloved finger.

Grissom poured a steaming cup, savoring the smell before he took a sip.  "Oh, yes."  He groaned a pleasured sound.

"Would you two like some time alone together?" Robbins jibed.

"You've got to take your pleasure where you can," Grissom countered.

"I can give you the names of some clubs that might have something that comes closer to what you need," Robbins teased.

Grissom raised an eyebrow and shot Robbins a disapproving frown before refilling the half-empty cup and walking closer, mindful to stay far enough back to avoid contaminating the area should he spill his coffee.  The idea that the corpse would contaminate his coffee never entered his mind.

"The second thing I need is for you to tell me what you found on the DB from the meth lab."

"Catherine's case," Robbins intoned, stepping back from the body and pulling off his gloves, tossing them into a metal pan near the head.

"Yeah.  It is now, anyway."

"I don't think Sara did it," Robbins said, directing Grissom over to a workstation.  

"I don't either, but we've got to prove it," Grissom agreed.  "Can you?"

"No.  Maybe create reasonable doubt," Robbins shrugged helplessly.

"She'd still lose her job," Grissom exhaled.

"I know.  And I'd really miss seeing her around," Robbins added, looking out of the corner of his eye at his friend.

Grissom had been so intent on determining what had happened that he hadn't begun to think of the ramifications for Sara.  If she were arrested, even if later exonerated, she'd lose her job.  Without the job, there was nothing to hold her in Vegas.  His stomach began to tie into more knots.

"He's just been identified from his prints, which was a good trick.  You should give Jacqui a raise.  He's either accidentally or purposefully burned off most of his ridge detail with chemicals, such as acids or corrosives."

"Common chemicals at meth labs," Grissom said.

"Exactly.  Anyway, she came in here and managed to raise the ridges enough to get a match off of AFIS.  His name's Buddy Rodgers.  Believe it or not, Buddy isn't a nickname – it's his given name."

Robbins handed a printout to Grissom to read as he searched for a file on his computer.

"Buddy Robbins, forty-two years old.  Two stretches in prison for intent to sell.  A full member of Hell's Angels.  Tough guy."  

"Not tough enough," Robbins said.  "Someone beaned him once on the back of the head with a heavy blunt object ... probably a baseball bat or a pipe by the looks of the subcutaneous bruise pattern."

Robbins pulled up a picture on the screen.  "This is his larynx.  Or what's left of it, I should say.  Crushed.  He died of asphyxiation."

"So, someone hit him on the head to knock him out or at least subdue him.  Then they crushed his larynx to kill him, right?"

"Right.  But he didn't go down easy.  He's got contusions all over him and defensive wounds.  Looks at his knuckles," Robbins said, pulling up another picture.  "Whoever he fought with should be bruised as well.  He got in at least one good lick, on something hard, like a face or a head."

"Thanks, Doc," Grissom said, setting down his cup hesitantly, wishing he could take the coffee with him.  

"Styrofoam cups are under the sink," Robbins said, pulling on fresh gloves.  "Probably carcinogenic, and ruins the taste of the coffee, but who am I to judge?"

Grissom poured the rest of his coffee in the cup formed from extruded plastic foam, anxious to head back to the hospital.

* * * * *

"Hey," he said lightly, peeking in the door.

"Hey.  Come on in," Sara said, pushing herself up in the bed.

"How're you feeling?"

"Better all the time," she chirped, trying to sound as chipper as possible.

"Good.  I need to ask you some questions," he said, abandoning the thought of the chair.  Instead, he leaned lightly against her bed.  Sara scooted over and patted the mattress, inviting him to sit there.  After a moment's hesitation, he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Questions about what?" she asked.

"Sara, when Catherine was backtracking your cases, she went to the meth lab."

"Yeah, so?"

"She found a body there.  A guy named Buddy Rodgers.  Did you know of him?"

"No.  Never heard of him.  But they busted lots of guys, and some others ran out the back when we got there."  She saw the look of concern pass over his face.

"Oh, I stayed back with Vega until the scene was cleared.  I promise," she said, holding up her right hand symbolically, becoming annoyed at the entangling IV lines.

"Thank you," he exhaled.  "I appreciate that."

"I'm not quite sure what to make of that," she said uncertainly.

"Just what I said.  I appreciate you not getting yourself hurt or killed at a scene."

"The paperwork for something like that must be a bitch," she mumbled to herself, the diazepam and phenobarbitol still affecting the filters she'd normally apply to hide what she was thinking.

Grissom stared at her, not knowing whether she was teasing or serious, so he was unable to respond comfortably.

"The paperwork would be the least of my concerns," he finally said.

"Especially if you made Catherine do it," she said.

"Sara, what's the matter with you?" Grissom asked, becoming concerned.

"I've got to get out of here, Grissom.  I hate this place.  Look at me!  They've got crap stuck on me and in me everywhere, even some places you can't see, thank God.  I can hardly move!"

"They need to find out what's wrong, Sara.  Give them some more time."

"More time?  Everybody wants more time!  Like I'm supposed to have the freaking patience of Job!  Does everyone think I exist in some time-warp and have infinite amounts of it at my disposal?"

"Calm down, Sara," Grissom said, nervously eyeing the monitors.

"Please, Grissom?" she said, grabbing his hand with both of hers, pleadingly.

"Please, what?  What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"They don't want to discharge me unless someone else takes me home, because of the medications they gave me.  Will you tell them that you'll take me home?  My home, I mean," she said, realizing the ambiguity of her words.

"And here I thought I was finally going to get you over to my house," he teased.

"Like that would ever have been hard to do," she snorted.

"I think you should stay here until we know how this happened, Sara," he suggested, missing the contact when she pulled away from his hand.

"I'm leaving.  With or without you," she said, sitting up and methodically pulling electronic leads off of her body, sending the monitors into peals of alarm.

This time the orderly and supervisor came in first, assuming Sara was having another nightmare.  

"What are you doing, Miss Sidle?" the nurse asked, her brow furrowed.  

"I'm leaving.  Now you can either take all of these tubes out of me, or I'll do it myself," she said defiantly.

Grissom shrugged his acceptance of their mutual defeat to the nurse, who sent the orderly back to get some adhesive bandages to cover the punctures from the IVs once they were removed.

The Nurse Supervisor called the front office to prepare Sara's releases, pointedly telling them that she's being released against medical advice.

"You'll need to excuse us, sir.  I need to remove Miss Sidle's catheter," the nurse said, shooing him towards the door.

"I'll go get my car," he said over his shoulder, actually glad to have been ejected from the room.  Maybe she'd be easier to deal with once she was comfortable at home.  Her home.

* * * * *

"Sara, this is going to sound strange, but do you have any bruises on you?" Grissom asked as he steadied her on the climb up the stairs to her apartment.

"Just on the tops of my hands, from the IVs.  Other than that, I don't know.  I don't exactly keep a log," she said.  "Why?"

"Would you mind if I looked?" Grissom asked, taking the keys from her hand, pushing the door open.

"Whatever turns you on.  But I'd still like to know why," she laughed.

Closing her door, Grissom gathered himself for what he expected to be another storm.  "Buddy Rodgers, the DB, was beaten to death.  He had defensive wounds.  I need to exclude you," he said quickly.

"Exclude me?  How the hell did I get included in the first place?" she shouted, turning to face him.

"He was found at your scene.  You'd gone back alone the next night, which wasn't safe, by the way."

"Yeah, and there wasn't any dead body when I was there.  I didn't kill anyone!"

"I know that!  But there's conflicting evidence."

"Like what?" she said, crossing her arms at her chest.

"Insect evidence that he died shortly after the bust.  A hair on the body that matches your DNA.  Not to mention your erratic behavior lately."

"So I'm screwed?"

"No, there's also insect evidence that he died a day or two later, when you were working all night with Nick.  And Doc Robbins thinks that he did, too.  But the key may be that the victim had bruised knuckles, indicating that he made contact with his assailant."

"So you want to check for bruises," she nodded.  "Okay, knock yourself out, no pun intended," she said.  "Where do you want to look?"

"Al said that he'd have to have hit bone to form that deep of a contusion."

"That could be almost anywhere," Sara laughed.

"Yeah, well, Dr. Russell wanted to talk to you about that, too," Grissom said gingerly.

"About what?"

"Your weight.  He says you're severely underweight.  It's not healthy.  Can lead to all sorts of metabolic problems."

"Do you think I'm too thin?" she asked in a voice that confused Grissom.  

"I'm not an expert.  If he says it's unhealthy, I guess it is," Grissom answered.

"But do you think I look bad?" she pressed.

Grissom's tongue peeked out from his lips as he pondered his options.  He could agree with the doctor or he could tell the truth.  Telling the truth might also save his hide, but would it be the best thing for Sara?

"Sara, I try really hard not to look at you that way at all," he said, hoping to get out of answering.

"Well, you need to look for bruises anyway, so you can tell me if I look bad," she said, pulling her sweater off over her head.

"Damn, Sara!" Grissom said, turning around quickly.  "Don't do that!"

"I thought you wanted to examine me for bruises," she said, continuing to undress.

"Not every inch of you!" he said in frustration.

"What part of me?" she asked, sitting on the bed that took up the bulk of the room.

Grissom walked over to the chair and picked up an afghan draped lazily over the back.  "Here, cover yourself up ... please," he said, holding out the coverlet behind him.

"I guess that answers that question.  Can't even stand to look at me," she groused.

"Nothing could be further from the truth," he sighed.

He heard the low groan of the bedsprings as she rose slowly from the bed.  He held the blanket out as far as he could reach, expecting her to take it any moment.  Instead, he felt a warm hand on his back, between his shoulder blades.

"Look at me, Grissom," she said lowly, running her hand down his back, then circling around under his outstretched arm.  As she caressed him, she leaned in against his back, sliding her other arm under his to join in the exploration of his chest.

Oh, God!  I can feel her breasts against my back.  I want her so much!  And she's here, naked, touching me.  I could have her.  Just turn around.  Just that easy. ... Too easy.  This is too easy.  This isn't Sara.  It's the sedatives.  Damn it!  I've got to stop this! 

Grissom was as immobile as a deer in the headlights – his only movements were shivers as she ran her hands up and down his chest.  He had determined to stop it before it went too far, but found it hard to deny himself just another moment of feeling the pleasure of her touching him, wanting him.

He was shocked back into awareness when she unfastened a button, making room to slide her hand under his shirt.  Her touch on his bare skin evoked a gasp, and brought on the realization that he had to call a halt to her explorations right away or right losing control.

"Sara, please," he breathed out more than spoke, trying to move away without pulling her over.  He caught her other roving hand, dropping the blanket in the process.  His instincts urged him to press her hand even more salaciously to his body, but his senses won out and he peeled it away from him.

"Go back to the lab, Grissom.  Back to where you belong, where you're happy.  Leave me alone.  You can send the Wicked Witch of the West to see if I have bruises," Sara said, the slamming door of her bathroom to punctuate the sentence.

Grissom closed his eyes and took a series of deep breaths, willing himself to calm down.  There was no way he could walk out in public right now.  

She obviously doesn't know the effect she has on me.  

Damn it!  I won't take advantage of her!  If only she hadn't just come home from the hospital, still all drugged up.  She didn't really know what she was doing.  

_If she had, I wouldn't be standing here like an idiot now.  I'd be looking at her, holding her.  And she'd see that I love the way she looks, the way she feels next to me.  _

_Stop it!  Thinking about that isn't going to help.  I've got to get it out of my mind or I'll never get out of here without humiliating myself._

Grissom could hear the sound of sniffing, then water running in the sink.  

"Sara, are you okay?" he called through the door.

"Go away!" she barked.

"Not until I know you're okay," he said, putting a hand on the door as though it was to her face.

"I'm fine.  Now go!"'

"You think I don't want you," he sighed, letting his forehead rest against the cool wood door.

"You made that pretty clear ... on more than one occasion."

"If you saw me now, you'd know better," he admitted.

Grissom straightened when he felt the vibrations in the wood from her turning the knob.  Assuming she'd still be undressed, he turned around, walking a few paces from the door.

"Don't panic.  I have a robe on," she said tiredly.  "You can turn around."

"No, actually I can't," he said enigmatically.

"Why not?"

"I told you.  If you saw me, you'd know that I do want you."

"Ooooh.  I think I get it.  But, I don't understand.  I want to be with you, and you say you want me.  What's the problem?"

"The problem is diazepam and phenobarbitol."

"Huh?"

"Your medications, Sara.  It wouldn't be right to ...  It would be taking advantage of you.  What would I do if you sobered up and told me you didn't really mean to do it?  You'd feel violated, and I'd feel like a jerk, or worse.  No, I can't do it.  Not until I know it's you talking and not the drugs."

"That's really sweet of you, Grissom," she said, her voice losing its edge.  "You know, all the meds should be out of my system in a few hours.  I guess I'll know then if you're telling me the truth or jerking me around again."

"If you're feeling better, I'd like to see you tomorrow morning, after work," he said hopefully.  The source of his embarrassment had subsided, but the thought of seeing her again, when he wouldn't have to stop himself, sent a tingle of excitement through his body that brought his attention back to it again.

"Only a few hours until work starts.  Time enough to take a nice, hot bath and eat.  Sure you don't want to stay?" she asked.

"I'm sure I do want to stay," he laughed.  "But I'm not going to.  And you aren't going to work tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because you just got out of the hospital and we still don't know for certain what the problem was.  Even if it were just sleep deprivation, all the more reason for you to stay home and rest another day."

"Is that my boss talking?"

"Does it need to be?  Or would you do it for just plain me?"

"I'd actually be more likely to do it for you than for my boss," she laughed.

"I figured as much.  So, can I come by after work?"

"What do you think?" she asked, moving towards him seductively.

"Sara!" he warned, adopting a scowl meant to dampen her ardor.

Holding up both hands in surrender, she stopped, shooting him a sleepy grin.  

"Will you just get in bed?" he said firmly.

"I thought you'd never ask," she teased, pulling back the covers.  

"Incorrigible."

"You'll need to turn around while I take off my robe, unless you want to go through the whole exercise again, which wouldn't bother me at all."

"I don't think I could survive it again," he murmured.

"Then I suggest you not bother coming here tomorrow," she teased, as she slid under the covers.  "Okay.  I'm decent.  Well, at least I'm covered."

"You sleep, um, nude?" he asked, his throat parchment dry.

"Unless I'm cold," she said evenly.  "I like the feel of the cool sheets against my skin."

Stop!  If I let myself think about it, I'll never get out of here with any dignity whatsoever. 

He turned his head hesitantly, not firmly convinced she wasn't setting a trap to ensnare him again.  Seeing that she was indeed covered, he relaxed, walking a bit unsteadily towards her bed.  

Without words, he leaned over and kissed her goodbye – this time on her cheek, lingering a second to take in her scent.  As before in the hospital, he turned wordlessly and left while he could.

* * * * *

I embarrassed him.  Shocked him.  Maybe it was the drugs.  Or maybe I'm just tired of waiting.  He says he wants me.  Maybe all it will take is a little push or two.

I wonder if he really will come back tomorrow.  Maybe it was just his hormones talking.  He'll think about it at work after he calms down, and find a reason to bail on me again.  He always does.

_But it's never gone this far before – he's kissed me twice, even if not on the lips.  Maybe he means it this time.  Maybe.  God, I hope so, or it's really going to be embarrassing to face him at work.  Of course, I could blame it on the meds, like he did.  Yeah, I could do that.  _

Sara turned, smiling that she was able to move freely without tubes and wires impeding her.  Sighing contently, she replayed the most satisfying several minutes of the past three years over and over in her mind, reveling in the feel of him.  Once sleep overtook her, she was soon able to advance the rendezvous in her dreams.

She was surprised when she looked at the clock through unfocused eyes, picking it up to bring it closer.  She didn't believe that she'd slept six hours, and had only just then had a nightmare to rouse her.  

Even when she'd been drugged at the hospital, she hadn't been able to manage more than one hour or two of sleep without being awakened by some horror from her past.  It was rarely the same dream repeated, but rather a parade review of all that she'd seen and experienced over the years, especially since she'd come to Vegas.

It was as though her mind was filled to capacity with abominations and terrors, and was trying to unburden itself to make room for what would no doubt be many more to come.

Feeling more refreshed than she could remember for quite some time, she made a pot of coffee and dug out the ingredients for an omelet.  She'd barely picked at the abysmal hospital chow.  

She finished dicing some sweet Vidalia onion, yellow bell pepper, and mushrooms, just as the coffee sputtered its last drops.  Spooning in what was probably too much sugar, she took a sip, sighing her contentment.

For a moment, she froze in indecision.  She normally sauteed the veggies in some water, but thought about the concerns of the doctor and considered using some real butter to add calories.  

Am I too thin?  Grissom doesn't seem to think so. ... Or at least part of him doesn't!  But maybe that doesn't matter that much to him anyway.  Would he feel differently if I put on a few pounds?  Probably not. 

After all, he's put on some weight in the past few years.  Hasn't changed how I feel one bit.  

She dropped a dollop of butter into the pan, dropping in the diced vegetables as soon as it started to sizzle.  Soon she added the eggs, taking pleasure in the smell of the softened vegetables.  After a few days without it, a simple meal like an omelet seemed like a luxury.

"Oh, better than sex!" she exclaimed at the first bite.  "Okay, that could be an exaggeration, but I am so completely in love with this omelet!"  

Sara decided to cap the morning by luxuriating in the tub.  Good sleep.  Good food.  A bubble bath.  The only thing that could make it better, in her estimation, would be to share all of it with Grissom.  She hoped that she'd get the chance one day soon.  

She lit candles and turned out the lights, pouring in an herbal-scented concoction that bubbled, but didn't leave her skin feeling dry or sticky when she got out.  Had she not slept so long, the darkened room, full stomach, hot water, and flickering candles might have lulled her to sleep, but in the wee hours of this morning, all she felt was contentment.

* * * * *

"Hey, I'm convinced.  I'm just saying that since she's one of our own, this could get passed on for review by someone else.  We've got to make sure it'll stand up," Vega said, defending himself from the staring, hostile eyes of the graveyard shift.

"It would be reasonable doubt in anyone's mind," Grissom assured him.

"Okay.  Run it all by me."

"All right.  I retrieved insect evidence from the scene.  It was inconclusive."

"Be specific."

"Some of the insects suggested he'd been dead four or five days.  Some, three days, max."

"What else?"

"The Medical Examiner believes he was dead three days, based on histological evidence showing divergent decompositional rates."

"Break that down for me," Vega prodded.

"His insides weren't as rotten as his outside," Catherine translated.  

"Thanks," Vega nodded, smiling appreciatively at Catherine.

"Someone opened the curtains after the house had been sealed," Grissom said showing still photos captured from the TV news videotape.  The picture with Vega and Sara in it showed that the curtains were closed.  The picture from the follow-up report showed them open.

"Maybe Sara opened them, when she went back," he suggested.

"Why?  It was dark outside.  No reason to open the curtains," Warrick threw in.

"Maybe someone opened them at the second scene, after the DB was found," Vega said.

"Nope.  I found the body, and the curtains were already open," Catherine answered.

"How does that prove anything, as far as Sara's involvement?" Vega shrugged.

"I have a theory," Grissom said earnestly, almost excitedly.

"I had a feeling you would," Vega chuckled.  "Let's hear it."

"The insect evidence was unusual.  Not the same variety of insects one normally sees.  You have to remember that it was a working meth lab, so there were relatively few insects in the house.  The fumes from the chemicals are as noxious to them as they are to us.  It wasn't an attractive place for bugs, in other words."

"So?"

"So they had to come in from outside or be hardy insects that can hide in protected areas, such as beetles.  Instead, I found two species of flies and two species of beetles.  That's all.  There should have been more bugs.  There are mites and spiders that feed on maggots and beetle larvae.  They normally arrive shortly after the beetles.  And the beetles didn't arrive in the normal sequence.  And there should have been more varieties of flies.  There were more blowflies than common house flies.  None of the entomological evidence adds up."

"So, what's your theory?"

"I think the blowflies were planted there.  The curtains were opened to boost the temperature from the light.  The air conditioning was probably turned off as well.  That would increase the rate of decomposition of the corpse, and speed the maturation of the flies.  The maggots themselves create heat, further decomposing the exterior of the victim.  Then the perp comes back later and turns on the air conditioning, lowering the temperature so that we wouldn't suspect anything was wrong with the timeline.

"One set of beetles feeds on a fresh corpse, the other on a decomposed corpse.  They were both there at the same time because of the rapid decomposition."

"So does this person know their bugs or not?"

"They may have some idea, maybe from a book or a movie, but they don't have specialized knowledge or they'd know that they weren't creating a realistic ecosystem."

"Okay.  Anything else?"

"There's the cause of death," Nick pitched in.  "The guy was beaten and had his voicebox crushed from a blow."

"No offense, but Sara's probably capable of holding her own in a fight.  And if she had a weapon, he'd be toast."

"Yeah, but this guy fought back.  Had bruised knuckles.  The hospital records don't mention any bruising, and Grissom's seen her.  She wasn't bruised up, was she?" Nick asked.

"No.  She looked fine," Grissom answered, clearing his throat.

"Hospital?  Why was she in the hospital?" Vega asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Eyes darted between the CSIs, all finally settling on Grissom.  

"Sleep deprivation," he answered.  "She's been having trouble sleeping, so they checked her out and gave her a sedative to help her sleep.  She was released yesterday evening."

"Oh, hope she's okay," Vega said sincerely.

"She's home resting tonight," Catherine answered.  "They didn't find anything wrong."

"Good.  Glad to hear it.  Sometimes the stress of the job can get to you," Vega said seriously.

"Yes, that's true," Grissom agreed.

"How did the perp get in without breaking the seal on the door?  We had locked all the windows and other doors," Vega ventured.

"I think the perp went in after Sara broke the first seal – probably while she was there," Catherine answered, her eyes darting quickly to Grissom, who was unaware of that discovery.

"So he hid out while she was there, waiting for the victim?  How'd the victim get in after Sara sealed it the second time?"

"Through the back door.  It wasn't sealed and it's a self-locking door.  He could have unlocked the door.  The victim was looking for a way in for whatever reason, probably to see if the cops got all their stash, and he finds the back door unlocked.  The perp kills him and walks out the back door, pulling it closed behind him."

"Why?  What was the motive?" Vega asked.

"How should I know?" Catherine barked.  "We can't always hand it to you with a pretty bow on top, Vega.  You may have to do a little of the work on your own."

Vega took a deep breath to dispel the instinctive anger at her sarcasm.  He realized he's probably feel the same if someone was asking questions about one of his teammates.

"Okay.  Now we're down to the hard one.  Sara's hair on the victim."

"That's not hard to explain," Grissom said.  "We shed hairs all the time.  Sara had been at the scene twice, for several hours total.  She no doubt shed several hairs in that time.  Either it adhered to the victim once he hit the ground, or maybe the perp saw the hair and planted it.  Who knows?  But her hair only proves she was at the scene, and everyone already knows that."

"Let me ask you something," Nick said.  "Why would Sara kill the guy?  I mean, what's her motive here?"

"Maybe he came in while she was there, and she was defending herself," Vega answered.

"Why wouldn't she call it in?  That doesn't make any sense," Nick said, shaking his head 'no'.  

"Look, don't take this the wrong way.  I'm not the one who'd say this.  But someone else might.  Like the press, or someone trying to cause problems.  They might say that Sara and this guy had dealings, you know?  Like maybe she was getting paid to throw off the investigation or something.  But something went wrong and she offed him.  Left him, figuring he'd be mush by the time the hazmat team got there to clean up.  Or she could have easily torched the place later, after everything settled down.  Lots of flammable chemicals in there."

Nick was fuming, clenching his jaw and his fists simultaneously.  Fearing that he was close to exploding, Catherine put her hand on his arm, distracting him.  She smiled in understanding, asking him silently to calm down.  Rude comments were one thing, but a physical altercation wouldn't be overlooked.

"There is absolutely no evidence to support such a contention," Grissom said, trying to hold his own anger at bay.

"Well, there's a dead drug dealer in a meth lab that Sara was the last person to visit," Vega countered.

"She obviously wasn't the last person to visit," Grissom replied.

"Prove it," Vega prodded.

"Prove she did it," Warrick huffed.

"I can't – not enough evidence.  But her name can still be dragged through the mud unless you find the mystery person," Vega said, getting up to leave, knowing his welcome was wearing thin.  He didn't blame them;  he knew they'd eventually realize he was trying to help.  But it would only get worse if he stayed.

"What if this isn't about the meth lab at all?" Catherine mused aloud, looking out into empty space as she spoke.  "What if it isn't about the dealer?  What if it's about Sara?"

"What do you mean?" Nick asked.

"What if someone's trying to frame Sara?"

"Who?  Why?" Warrick asked.

"Anybody she put away.  Or is likely to.  Maybe someone involved with a crime she's processing.  Maybe a jilted lover.  Hell, I don't know.  Just someone out to get her for some reason."

"Where's Pettigrew?" Nick asked, raising an eyebrow.

"_He_ jilted _her_," Warrick reminded him.  

Grissom hadn't thought of what Hank had done to Sara in some time, and wished he hadn't been brought up.  It still bothered him that they apparently only broke up because Hank wasn't committed to an exclusive relationship and Sara was.  It hurt to think of her wanting to have that level of intimacy with another man.

"Oh, yeah," Nick said, falling back into thought.

"Maybe some woman who's jealous of her," Warrick said.

"Is she seeing someone?  Dating, I mean," Grissom asked, his mouth feeling almost too dry to speak.  

"She hasn't mentioned anyone to me," Warrick said.

"Well, that's 'cause you've got a big mouth," Nick said teasingly.

"I only told you and Cath, and that was only once, a long time ago," Warrick said in his defense.  

"Catherine?"  Grissom looked at her expectantly.

"Like she'd tell me!" Catherine said, considering that they'd not been on the best of terms lately.

"Nick?  You two are friends.  Do you know if she's dating anyone?" Grissom repeated.

"Not that I know of.  I tried to fix her up with some dates, but she passed.  But that doesn't mean she's not dating.  I mean, we're work friends, but we don't hang out and bare our souls to each other.  She could be dating half the guys in the lab, and I'd never know it."

"Maybe she's dating Greg," Warrick mused.  "He's had a crush on her from Day One.  And they've gotten pretty tight since, well, since the accident," he said, glancing briefly at Catherine.

Again, Grissom felt the acid pouring into his stomach.  He knew the two had played at flirting for at least the past two years – Greg always the pursuer, and Sara always spurning him, but never so much as to make him give up.  Had the game turned real?

"If nothing else, he might know who she's seeing," Nick said.

"Someone needs to talk to Greg, then," Grissom stated.

"I think that you should do it," Catherine said.

"Me?" Grissom asked incredulously.

"Well, you are the supervisor, right?  And he'd know for certain that it wasn't being asked for idle gossip, since you don't indulge in that particular vice," Catherine quipped.

"I'd rather not be the one to ask.  It could be misconstrued," Grissom said hesitantly.  Looking around the table, he was surprised that no one seemed confused or surprised by his statement.

"I know what you mean, Gil.  But it really should be you," Catherine said more gently than she was accustomed to talking to him.

Shrugging his acceptance after a moment's thought, Grissom left the team to keep brainstorming while he made the short jaunt to Greg's DNA/Chem Lab.

"Greg, can I talk to you in my office?" Grissom asked, immediately retreating.  He knew that he'd be much more comfortable on his own turf, and wanted the talk to be private.

"I didn't do it!  Unless, of course, it was something I was supposed to have done – in which case, I already did it and the report is in here somewhere," Greg said nervously as he entered Grissom's office.  It was rare for him to venture into Grissom's lair, unless summoned.

"Have a seat, Greg.  I need to ask you something," Grissom began, his own nervousness adding to fuel to Greg's.

"Shoot."

"First of all, I need for you to understand that there's a valid reason I'm asking you this.  It's not personal, nor idle curiosity."

"Oooo-kaaaay," Greg drawled, a tense smile on his face.

"Is Sara dating anyone?"

Greg's expression didn't change;  he seemed frozen.

"Greg?"

"Uh, I wouldn't feel comfortable discussing Sara's personal life," he finally said.

"Greg, this is really important.  Someone might be trying to frame her for a murder.  We need to know if there's anyone else in her life that we don't know about.  Someone who might have a motive.  Like a jilted boyfriend.  Or a jealous ex-girlfriend of a boyfriend."

"You should ask Sara," Greg said, standing.  Being higher, if not taller, than Grissom made him feel less vulnerable.

"First of all, I don't want to alarm her.  Second, it would be ... uh ... uncomfortable ... for me to talk to her about it."

"Still ..." Greg was unconvinced.

"Would you at least tell me if you're dating her?  That would fall into the category of your own personal life."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm serious."

"I should be so lucky!  Everyone in this building would know if I were dating her.  Not that I'd tell anyone.  But I wouldn't be able to get the silly grin off my face."

"Greg, I really need to know if she's dating.  I promise I won't let on to Sara that you told me," Grissom said seriously.  

"Let me think.  Okay, I have an idea.  What if I ask her if it's okay?  Not tell her why, specifically.  She'll think you want to know for personal reasons."

"How is that better?" Grissom asked, befuddled.

"Because she'd probably like it if you asked for personal reasons," Greg said, shrugging as though he were indifferent to the implications of his statement.

"But if she is seeing someone else .. I mean someone ... why would she want me to know?  That is, if she thinks I'm asking for personal reasons?"

"Because she wouldn't want a repeat of the Hank fiasco, I guess.  I don't know.  Maybe she won't tell.  Look, at this point, I'd tell you if I knew.  But I won't know unless I ask her.  Nowadays she's very secretive about her personal life."

"Okay," Grissom exhaled, leaning back exhaustedly in his chair.

Greg pulled his cell phone from his holster and began to dial.

"You're going to call her now?  From here?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah.  Why not?"

Greg had to admit that he was enjoying seeing Grissom flustered.  Sara appeared to be the one area that he didn't feel complete confidence in.

"Hey.  It's me.  What ya up to?"

Greg looked around the room as he listened to Sara tell him about her morning of self-indulgence.

"Sounds cool.  Bubble bath, huh?  How big is your tub?  Is it big enough for two?  Oh, too bad.  I was hoping maybe you'd invite me over for a bubble bath with you sometime.  Ouch!  That hurt!" Greg laughed at what was apparently her latest rebuff.

Grissom dropped his face into his hands, as much to hide his embarrassment for Greg as his own.

"Wanna have breakfast after work?"

Grissom's head shot up, intent on discerning the answer to Greg's invitation.

"Okay, some other time.  Hey, listen, I almost forgot.  Grissom's asked me if you're seeing anyone.  I don't know.  No, he asked me in private.  What do you want me to say?  Yeah, I'm thinking the truth is usually a good call.  Okay, then.  Hey, are you coming to work tonight?  Okay, I'll see you then.  Maybe catch a break for some decent coffee.  Yeah, I've got a new one I think you'll like, a Mocha Sanani.  Later."

"Well?" Grissom asked impatiently.

"She's not seeing anybody right now," Greg answered.  "So it that a good thing?  Or a bad thing?  'Cause I'm thinking that if she was, you'd have a suspect to check out.  But if she wasn't, you're back to square one."

"We're back to square one," Grissom said.

"Then why do you look like it's a good thing?" Greg asked, leaving Grissom's office abruptly to avoid any possible blowback.  

Sara obviously didn't tell him that I was coming over later.  Is that because she knows I wouldn't want it to be public knowledge?  Or is she hiding it from Greg for another reason? Is she afraid of hurting him?  Is she interested in him, maybe, just a little?  

_But his question makes me wonder if she's talked to him about me.  Does he know that she asked me out?  Are they that close?  I think Sara and I need to talk about this before things go any further.  I need to know just how close they are.  Not that I think it's romantic.  No, I just want to make sure that our private lives are just that ... private._

Grissom returned to the break room, a negative head shake his only answer to their questioning eyes.  

"Well, shit!  I thought we were on to something!" Catherine huffed.

"Still, it could be someone from Sara's past.  Or an offender," Warrick reminded them.

"You're going to have to talk to her about it.  She could be in danger," Nick said anxiously to Grissom.

"She's supposed to be resting.  I'll call her after work," Grissom said.

"I don't think this should wait, Gil.  What if someone really is after Sara?" Catherine urged.

"Okay.  I'll take Greg with me," Grissom said, to the surprise of the others.  "She's friends with him.  He might make her feel more comfortable.  And he can stay for a while if she's upset." 

Grissom ignored several raised eyebrows as he left the room.  Did their reactions mean that they suspected Greg and Sara really were involved?  Or did it mean that they suspected that he had interest, so they were surprised he was taking Greg?  

He hadn't done any more than kiss her, and not even on the lips, yet she was already complicating his life.

* * * * *

Grissom knew he was almost as socially inept as he was thought to be, but he knew that he should at least call before coming over, since he wasn't expected for a couple more hours.

"Hey, it's Grissom."

"Hey.  You aren't bailing on me already, are you?" Sara asked, her voice lighthearted, though a hint of anxiety showed through.

"No.  Not at all.  As a matter of fact, Greg and I need to come talk to you now, if that's okay."

"You and Greg?  What for?"  Her voice sounded a bit thick, like someone who just woke up, or maybe had a couple of drinks.

"It's about the case."

"What about it?" she asked.

"Can we talk about it there?"

"Yeah, I guess so.  I'm feeling really kind of zoned out, so I'd like to go back to bed pretty quickly.  So the sooner you guys get here, the better," she said almost dreamily.

"We'll be there in a few minutes."

"Okay.  Sounds good."

"Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"I ... I ... um ... I hope you're feeling better," he stammered, changing the message at the last minute.

"I hope I am, too," she giggled.  "I have plans for you later."

"I'm looking forward to hearing about your plans."

"Oh, I plan to show you," she purred.

"I've got to go.  If I don't get off the phone now, I won't be able to walk down the hall without getting some pretty strange looks," Grissom huffed.

"Can't have that!"

"No, we can't.  Sara, whatever happens between us, it's got to be private, understand?"

"Of course I understand.  I don't want anyone in my personal life any more than you do."

"Not even your friends?"

"All my friends are either at work, so I couldn't tell them, or in San Francisco, and they wouldn't know you from Adam."

"What about Nick?  Or Greg?  You're friends with them, right?"

"What about Catherine, Grissom?  You're friends with her.  Are you planning on telling her?"

"God, no!"

"Same here.  You definitely need to chill out.  And, I think I could help you with that," she added bawdily.

"I imagine you can."

"Hey, you gonna hang up the phone and come over here?"

"Yes.  I guess I just needed to know how you felt about the privacy issue before I see you again."

"See you in a few," Sara said groggily, hanging up.

* * * * *

Grissom's knocking advanced to near-pounding.  Greg looked around sheepishly, hoping none of the neighbors were already calling 911.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed her number, vaguely hearing the ringing from behind the door.  In a moment it stopped, and Greg held up a hand to still Grissom.

"Hey, girl.  Why don't you get off your dead butt and answer the door?  Can't you hear us knocking?"

Greg cast a strange look at Grissom, then chuckled into the phone.  "Yeah, I know it's a Stones song.  But it's _Can't You Hear Me Knocking_.  You gonna let us in before we're arrested?"

Greg looked around as he was listening.  "Oh, okay.  Bye."

There were large pots of flowers on each side of the door.  Greg tipped up one, and felt under it, pulling out a key.

"She said to let ourselves in."  Greg shrugged.  "Sounded pretty wasted."

Grissom took the key and opened the door, immediately scanning the efficiency apartment's semi-darkness for her.  The stereo was playing what he recognized to be the Pink Floyd album they had been discussing earlier.  Sara was sprawled across the bed, thankfully clothed.

"Hey, guys," she said dreamily.

"Hey," Grissom said, turning on a small bedside lamp.

"You like this album, right?" Sara asked.

"Yeah.  We talked about it before, remember?" Grissom said, wondering if she were just sleepy or perhaps intoxicated.

Greg rounded the bed, sitting on the other side, across from Grissom, Sara sandwiched in the middle.

"Hey, Sara," he said with a grin.

"Hey, Greggo.  What up, dawg?" she slurred.

"Is it 4-20 or somethin'?  'Cause you're definitely baked."

"No way!" Sara answered.

Grissom looked at Greg for a translation, but didn't get one.

"Sure you haven't been blazin'?" Greg asked.

"I'm sure."

"Then why are you cheezin' like that?" he snorted.

"Why are you all up in my grill?" she countered.

Greg held up both hands in surrender, shaking his head and trying to suppress a laugh.

"You know I'm gonna drop a dime to your boo," he warned, nodding towards Grissom.

"You can tell him whatever you want to.  I'm not high!" Sara said plainly.

"You are so trippin'!" Greg laughed.

"I feel a little zoned, but I'm telling you that I haven't done anything but eat, bathe and lie down!"

"Come on!  Pink Floyd?  At least it's _The Wall_.  If it was _Dark Side of the Moon_, I'd know you're lying!"

"I like _The Wall_," she said thickly.

"Yeah, whatever," Greg said dismissively, looking around the room to see if he could find any evidence of what was causing Sara's intoxication.

"Greg, you want to give me a clue as to what's going on?" Grissom asked.

"I don't know.  All I know is that she's high on something."

"Sara?  Hey, did you take any medication?" Grissom asked, reaching over to lightly grasp her face, turning her to face him.  

"Hey, Grissom," she smiled lazily.  "What are you doing here?"

"I came with Greg to talk to you.  I called you, remember?"

"Really?" she shrugged, her eyelids slowly closing and opening.  "Wow.  I feel like I'm floating.  Am I floating?" she asked seriously.  "I always wanted to be able to fly.  Sometimes I'd have dreams about it."

"Trippin' your ass off," Greg laughed, getting up to have a look around the room.

"Open the windows and the door, Greg, in case there's something in the air here.  Both times that this has happened to her, she's been at home."

"Where else would she get stoned?" he asked, opening the windows.

"Greg, I don't think this is purposeful.  Do you have some reason to believe I'm wrong?" Grissom asked, fixing him with a stare.

"No.  She's never said anything to me about drugs.  Not that she would."

"You stay here with her.  Keep her corralled.  I'm going to have a look around," Grissom instructed.

Grissom began by looking in the bedside tables, under the bed, behind books, under seat cushions – every place in the main room that wasn't immediately visible.

He moved around the breakfast bar into the kitchen.  He noted that she had obviously eaten, since there was a single plate in the sink, topped by a fork.  The chef's knife, chopping board, and bowl with a hazy film around the sides told him that it was probably an omelet.  There was still a faint smell of vegetables and eggs in the atmosphere.

"What did you have for dinner, Sara?" Greg asked, just to make conversation.

"An omelet.  Two eggs.  Yellow pepper.  Onions.  Mushrooms.  Sauteed in butter.  I wanted toast, but I must be out of bread," she said with disappointment.

"Sounds good.  What did you drink?"

"Coffee."

"Anything good?"

"No.  Store brand," she answered guiltily.

"I disown you!" Greg said theatrically, turning his head from her.

"I wonder if Grissom was like you, when he was a kid," Sara said thoughtfully.

"First of all, Grissom was never a kid," Greg said in mock-horror.  "Second, he was never, ever as hip as I am."

"He listened to Pink Floyd.  And the Grateful Dead.  Pretty hip back in the day."

Grissom opened the refrigerator, scanning the almost empty shelves and opening drawers.  He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but the apartment only had the one main room and a bathroom, so it wasn't like he could avoid their conversation.  

"Yeah, well, the only time Grissom is closer to hip than Greg, is alphabetically," he quipped.

Grissom groaned and shot Greg a disapproving look, but it wasn't seen.  

"Thank God that CD's done.  What else do you have to listen to?"  Greg walked over to the CD rack next to the high-end stereo.  Sara obviously had set priorities on her spending:  the room was sparsely furnished and decorated, but all of her electronics were top-of-the-line.

"Alice in Chains.  Bach.  Beatles.  Chemical Brothers.  Cold Play.  Definitely an eclectic collection.  I can dig that.  Led Zeppelin.  Mozart.  Nine Inch Nails.  Rolling Stones, back when they were good.  Soundgarden.  Stone Temple Pilots.  I get it – alphabetical order.  Why aren't I surprised?" Greg laughed, flipping through the rest of the CDs.

"Okay, Sara, I'm in a Nine Inch Nails mood.  It's a toss-up between _Fragile_ and _Downward Spiral_.  Either one should be good for trippin'," he laughed, holding one in each hand.  

"Yo, Sara!  You still with us?" Greg asked, shaking the bed with his hands.

"Have you seen the Shadow Man?" she asked, turning to Greg.

"Can't say that I have," he answered, looking over to check Grissom's progress.  "Oh, this cut is definitely for you," he joked, laying the _Downward Spiral_ CD in the drive.  "Track 5, I believe.  Oh yeah," he smirked as _Closer_ began its insistent beat.

Grissom stopped and quickly came back to the bed.  "Greg, why don't you go check out the bathroom?  I'll stay with Sara."

"Uh, sure.  What exactly am I looking for?"

"Drugs, medication, intoxicants of any kind.  You're a chemist.  Look at any chemicals you find, like cleaners.  See if there's anything that can explain Sara's condition."

"Oh, okay," he agreed, disappearing into the bathroom.  He wished he could have turned up the stereo, but he knew that Grissom would probably object, not to mention the neighbors.  Nine Inch Nails singing rather plainly about carnal knowledge at 120 decibels at five in the morning would no doubt bring the local constabulary to visit.

"You _are_ here!  My superhero returns."

"Yes, I'm here.  How are you feeling?"

"I feel great.  Very mellow, but very aware, you know?  Aware of a lot of things."

Sara pushed herself up slowly, moving to sit closer to Grissom.

"This morning was really nice.  I had a good meal, took a long bath, and thought about you."

"Sounds a lot better than my morning," Grissom said, torn between worry and anger.  If she had taken something, he was going to find it difficult to mask his disappointment in her.  If she had been drugged surreptitiously, he was worried that the theory that someone was after her might be true.

"Remember last night?" she asked, reaching across to run her hand up his arm until she reached his neck, bringing a shudder to him.

"Yes," he gasped, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

"Did you really want me?" she asked, letting the hand meander down to his chest, to draw lazy circles and curves.

"Yes," he breathed out, barely able to speak.

"Do you know how much I want you?" she asked, letting her hand follow gravity.

"Sara ..." Grissom moaned, feeling himself drawn to her, almost magnetically.

"Kiss me, Grissom," she commanded quietly.

"No, Sara.  Not now.  Greg's here.  And you're not ...  It still wouldn't be right."

"Is it ever going to be the right time with you, Grissom?  Or will you always have an excuse?" she asked, but her words harbored no bitterness.

"I hope there will be.  I thought it would be today, but it doesn't look promising," he huffed in frustration.  Despite the circumstances, despite his worry, his fear, his anxiety, she was getting to him.

"Just a little kiss," she said innocently, moving both hands up to his shoulders, her face but a few inches from his.

Grissom squeezed his eyes shut and slightly turned his head, willing himself to get back in control over his emotions and his body.  They seemed to be conspiring to overthrow his intellect, and were dangerously close to accomplishing just that.

He realized his tactical error when he felt her warm lips on his, and soon he couldn't remember why he had been resisting her for so long.

"Look what I found ... oops!" Greg said, walking out of the bathroom, freezing, then turning about face and retreating, closing the door behind him.

Grissom pulled back from her, tugging her arms from around his neck.  He dropped his head and sighed a dragon breath.  "Shit!" he muttered forcefully.

"What's wrong?" Sara asked dreamily.

"Greg came in while ...  Damn, Sara!  I can't believe that you ...  that I ... Shit!" he said, standing up from the bed.  

"Greg!" Grissom barked, knocking on the bathroom door.  "Come on out."

"I'm sorry, Grissom," Greg said sheepishly, as he opened the door.  "I didn't mean to ... uh ... I didn't know that ..."

"Greg, stop it!  It wasn't what it looked like.  Sara's intoxicated and doesn't know what she's doing.  If one word of this gets out, I'll skin you alive.  Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Greg said, nodding maniacally.

"She's not responsible for her actions right now, and she'd be embarrassed if anyone, and I mean anyone, knew.  And that means you, too, so forget what you think you saw."

"Sure, Grissom," he agreed.

"Now, what did you find?" Grissom asked, all business.

"Oh, yeah.  At first I thought it was a decoration or something.  You know how women like to make little decorations for the house ..."

"Greg!  Get on with it!  What did you find?"

"Mushrooms," he said, holding out a terrarium sporting an army of tiny mushrooms sprouting from the rotting medium at the base.

"Mushrooms?" Grissom said, reaching for the terrarium.

"Yeah.  It was in the bathroom, which stands to reason, since it's the most humid room in the house.  Perfect for growing mushrooms."

"What kind of mushrooms are these?" Grissom asked, cocking his head as though a new angle would reveal all.

"I'm not a connoisseur of edible fungi, so I don't know.  You can buy kits for growing your own culinary mushrooms.  Of course, you can also buy kits for growing your own psychedelic mushrooms," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Get these to Hodges.  Tell him I want an identification and I want to know if they contain tryptamines.  And I want to know the concentration, if they do.  Go!"

* * * * *

"Can we listen to something else?" Grissom asked, not really wanting to hear _Closer_'s chorus anymore.  Though he didn't really care for the song, he had to admit that it managed to convey the message it was intended to with the pounding, rhythmic beat of the music, overlaid by the bawdy lyrics: "I want to fuck you like an animal.  I want to feel you from the inside.  I want to fuck you like animal.  My whole existence is flawed.  You get me closer to God."

"How about something a little mellower," he suggested.

"_Dark Side of the Moon_?" she asked.

"Works for me," he said, happily replacing the Nine Inch Nails disc.  

"Where's Greg?" Sara asked, lazily looking around.

"I sent him back to the lab," Grissom answered, sitting in the chair after pulling it close to her bed.  But not close enough for her to touch him.

"Alone at last," she giggled.

"Sara, we found some mushrooms growing in your bathroom.  What kind are they?"

"I don't remember right now.  Ordered them from an ad in _Vegetarian Times_," she mumbled.  "Hey!  Did you see that?  Wait!  Hey, Grissom, you know what happens to light when it hits something?"

"Well some of it is absorbed.  The rest is reflected.  The reflection determines what we see, especially color."

"Yeah, I already knew that.  I'm a physicist, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"Okay, so, see the light coming from that lamp over there?  It's got characteristics of both particles and waves, right?  So they're streaming out of that lamp, hitting everything.  Some is absorbed, right?  So, see this light that's hitting me?  I'm absorbing most of it, right?  So, my question is, what am I doing with it?  It's not like it goes through me.  So I have to be doing something with it, right?"

"I've never really thought about it," Grissom said honestly.

"Well, it's got to go somewhere.  Electricity, which is energy, is transformed into heat due to resistance in the filament.  The heat is converted into illumination – light energy.  If it's energy, it can't just go away, right?"

"The Law of Conservation of Energy, that's right."

"So does that mean that I get energy from the light?  That would be so cool."

"I guess it would," Grissom said, looking at his watch.  Greg wouldn't even be to the lab yet.

"Did you eat any of the mushrooms this morning?" Grissom asked.  

"What mushrooms?"

"From the terrarium in the bathroom.  Did you eat any today?"

"Sure.  In my omelet."

"How long have you been growing them?"

"I got the kit about a month ago.  You know what's funny?  It seems like after a rainstorm mushrooms and toadstools pop up everywhere, overnight.  But if you are actually trying to grow them, it takes weeks.  But they produce their own spores, so they keep growing, as long as I don't eat them all," she laughed.

"Do you have anything that came with them?  A box?  Instructions?  A reorder form?"

"I don't know.  Maybe.  Around here somewhere, I guess.  The box was trashed.  You should have seen it.  Looked like it had been dropped on my porch from the airplane."

"Was it opened?" Grissom asked.

"It was pretty torn up.  But it was taped, so it held together," she answered in a moment of relative lucidity.

"Do you still have the magazine?"

"What magazine?"

Grissom sighed in frustration.  He never liked talking to the chemically impaired.  It was difficult to keep them focused, and he never knew when to believe them.

"Where is the _Vegetarian Times_ magazine?" he asked plainly.

"On the desk over there," she pointed.  Looking down her arm, she became fascinated at the sight.  Her arm appeared to elongate, stretching like it was made of rubber.  "Hey, look how long I can make my arm!  If I try really hard, I might be able to reach all the way to you."

Grissom ignored her comment and retrieved the magazine, flipping quickly through the pages, scanning the ads.  

"Was it this one?" he asked, showing her the ad.

"I don't remember right now.  Do you know that there's like this halo around you?  Not just your head.  Around your whole body.  The colors change.  Hey, I know what we do with the light!  That's what's converted into our auras – so that's where it goes.  Phew!  Glad I figured that out."

"Me, too," Grissom said empathetically.  Despite the circumstances, he found it amusing that Sara wouldn't let a mystery lie unsolved, even when she's impaired.

"Grissom," he answered when his cell phone rang.

"Well, there were some edible mushrooms, but there were also _Psilocybe cubensis_," Greg said as a greeting.  "Hodges recognized it immediately, which is a scary thought.  Hodges on a hallucinogen.  He's already a psycho to begin with."

"One of the most common psilocybin-containing mushrooms," Grissom said, ignoring the rest of Greg's banter.  He's read of them, but had never seen one.

"True dat.  It'll take a bit longer to get the concentration of psilocybin, but Hodges says that it's typically 0.5 percent or so of the dry weight.  A little less for the psilocyn."

"What's the duration of the intoxication?"

"Typically six hours, but only part of that involves hallucinations.  The rest of it is just mellow.  If ingested, the onset is slower, so she probably ate them an hour or two before it began to really affect her."

"So she should be fine in about three hours," Grissom said.

"Yep.  At least that's what the book says.  I, myself, would have no way of knowing, of course."

"Of course," Grissom agreed.

"You gonna take her to the hospital?" Greg asked nervously.

"No, not if I don't need to.  It'll just make her mad, which would only make things worse.  I'm going to call her doctor to see what he suggests, and tell him to put the samples they drew through a tox screen for hallucinogens."

"Yeah, the worst of it – or best, as the case may be – is probably about over.  She'll just be a happy camper for a few more hours, provided nothing freaks her out."

"This could explain a lot," Grissom said absently, looking over at Sara, who seemed oblivious.

"Your aura is changing colors," she said matter-of-factly.  

"You know this is an accident, Grissom.  Sara would never purposefully take any drugs.  If she ever did, do you think she'd let you know about it?  I think not.  No, she doesn't even realize she's trippin'," Greg said firmly.

"I know, Greg.  I agree she'd never do it, but if she did, she would keep it secret, not invite me ... us ... over."

"Good.  Just wanted to make sure she wasn't going to get into any trouble over this."

"No, but someone is.  She had to have gotten those spores somewhere.  She says she ordered a kit from a magazine.  Maybe their spores are contaminated with cubensis spores."

"Or maybe someone contaminated Sara's shipment," Greg said ominously.

"They aren't local growers," Grissom said, scanning the ad.  "Not if this is the right company."

"Could have been intercepted in transit," Greg said.  "How was it shipped?  They might have left it unattended on her porch.  Anyone could have gotten into it."

"She did say that the box was on her porch, and she noticed it was badly damaged.  You may be onto something, Greggo," Grissom teasingly called him.

"I'm a natural.  Admit it.  You need to let me start doing more field training.  Or are you afraid that I'll be better than you?"

"Yes, that's it, Greg.  You scare me.  You've always scared me."

"Hey, at least you're man enough to admit it!  Do you want me to call you when the GC-Mass Spec spits out the concentrations?"

"No, that's all right.  Save it for tonight.  When it's done, go home and get some rest.  You deserve it."

"Who are you, and what have you done with Grissom?" Greg asked snidely.

"Me?  I'm the guy who'll decide if you get any field training," Grissom deadpanned.

"Oh, I recognize the voice now.  You are Grissom," Greg countered.

* * * * *

"What are you doing?" Grissom nonsensically asked as Sara began to wrestle off her clothes.

"I'm getting dressed for bed.  Well, actually, undressed for bed," she corrected herself.

"I wish you'd warn me before you do that," Grissom said, using every ounce of his willpower to turn around.  

"Where's the fun in that?" she laughed, tossing each item across the room at the hamper that was to the side and in front of Grissom.  He tried not to watch the bombardment of clothes, each one shaking him to his core.  But he couldn't seem to deny himself that little pleasure, especially considering that he was denying himself a much greater one.  

The last two items, her undergarments, nearly pushed him past the edge of reason, and he closed his eyes tightly.

"You don't get it, do you?" he croaked through a dry mouth.

"I've been trying to get "it" for some time now, but I'm starting to give up hope," she answered ribaldly.

"I didn't mean for that to be a double entendre.  I meant ..."

"I know what you meant," she said, sliding between the sheets.  "Okay, you can turn around now."

"Maybe in a minute," he almost growled in frustration.

"Oh.  Are you always this, uh, responsive?" she giggled.

"Not generally," he answered, even more embarrassed by the question.

_I'm almost 50 years old.  I'm not some teenager who can't control himself.  I've had some close calls around her before, but I've never embarrassed myself like this before.  It's gotten to be too strong.  I can't resist it much longer.  I've either got to get away from her entirely, or I've got to have her._  

"Come sleep with me, Grissom," she cooed lazily.

"No."

"I mean literally.  Come to bed.  You don't have to get undressed," she said, smiling at the battle she could see him waging.

"To be honest, I'm not sure I can get that close to you without ... without ..." 

"Sure you can.  I won't touch you.  You can use the afghan and sleep on top of the covers.  I promise I won't jump you!"

Grissom grabbed the afghan and made his way around the bed, his mind warring against his body.  But his options were limited in the tiny efficiency apartment.  There wasn't a couch, the chair was too small to sleep in, leaving only the bed.  And he definitely didn't want to leave her alone until he was convinced she was back to normal.  

Taking off only his shoes, Grissom sat on the bed, easing himself into her proximity.  He finally gathered the courage to lie down, covering himself with the small throw.  Though he was over a foot from her, he could swear that he could feel the heat and electricity coming from her body.  

* * * * * 

The sun threw parallelograms of yellow light on the bed and its occupants, Sara underneath the top sheet and Grissom lying on top of the covers.  As it progressed in its relentless journey across the sky, the light eventually fell on his face, rousing him.  

He opened his eyes, forgetting for a moment where he was, startled at first to see another set of eyes peering at him.

"Afternoon," she said softly.

"Good afternoon," Grissom answered.  Still disoriented, and seeing that she was obviously naked under the sheet, Grissom was relieved to see that he was still fully dressed.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Grissom, but what are you doing in my bed?  Not that I have any objections, other than the fact that you're overdressed."

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Fine.  Now, answer the question."

"Greg and I came over last night to talk about the case.  We found you, um, impaired."

"Impaired?"

"You apparently ingested some _Psilocybe cubensis_ mushrooms."

"Magic mushrooms?  No way!  I promise you, Grissom, I don't do any drugs whatsoever, other than caffeine.  Sometimes a little nicotine, if I'm stressed out.  But nothing illegal!"

"I know.  Apparently the mushrooms growing in the bathroom were contaminated."

"Oh, that explains it.  I didn't think they tasted right.  I thought maybe it was the substrate I was growing them on, so I planned to change that.  If that didn't work, I was going to just toss them.  Chalk it up to a black thumb."  

"When did you first eat some?"

"A few days ago."

"That doesn't explain the sleep deprivation, though it explains your condition when I found you.  I thought it was sleep deprivation psychosis."

Sara shrugged noncommitally.  "It may have been that, too.  I haven't been sleeping well lately.  Only an hour or two every few days."

"Why?" Grissom asked, reaching across to cover her hand with his own.

"Nightmares kept waking me up.  Once I'm awake and hyperadrenalized, I can't get back to sleep very easily.  Normally, I only have maybe one every few nights.  But this last week they've been constant.  Or maybe just more vivid and frightening.  I don't know.  Maybe the mushrooms had something to do with that, too.  Sometimes I'd eat right before bed."

"So then you'd take caffeine pills and drink coffee to stay awake at work," Grissom added quietly.

"Yeah.  I thought I'd eventually get tired enough to sleep longer.  And a few times I took over-the-counter sleep aids.  I'd crash, but wake up anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour later.  It was awful.  I guess the mushrooms and the lack of sleep really did a number on me."

"Why didn't you tell me you were having problems?  You could have taken some time off to rest," Grissom chided her gently.

"What good would it do?  I've got half the day to rest already, but couldn't get any decent sleep.  If I had realized what was happening, I wouldn't have come to work.  I could have endangered the people I worked with," Sara said in horror at the sudden realization.

"People suffering from sleep deprivation psychosis don't realize that they are behaving strangely, like any other psychotic person.  To them, they are normal and everyone else is acting weird."

"Still, I'm really sorry that I put my team in danger," she said heavily.  

"You said you ordered them from an ad in _Vegetarian Times_.  Do you remember which one?"

"I think so," Sara said, sitting up to grab the magazine, dislodging the sheet to expose her upper body.  Realizing what she'd done, and considering his reaction the previous day, she snatched up the sheet with her free hand, sheepishly apologizing.  She noticed, though, that Grissom hadn't turned away this time.

She was having a difficult time holding the sheet with one hand and flipping through the magazine with the other.  "This isn't working well.  I guess I should get dressed.  You want to turn around again?"

"I'd rather not," Grissom said lowly.

"Well, in that case, I guess I don't have to get dressed after all," she chuckled, letting go of the sheet to use both hands.  "Here.  Here it is," she said, flopping over towards him, splaying the magazine out between them, pointing at an ad near the back.

Grissom reached out to turn the magazine, noting that it was the same ad he'd seen last night.  He resolved to call them to discuss the possibility of contamination of their spores.  But not yet.  He picked up the magazine and dropped it off the side of the bed behind him.

He could see the expectation in her eyes as he reached across to touch her, at first not daring contact with what had drawn his attention.  Instead, he laid his hand flat on the top of her chest, where he could feel her breathe and the thumping of her heart.

He'd made the first step, and Sara felt it was her turn, so she covered his hand with her own, pulling it down and over to her breast, until he pulled back suddenly as if his hand were burned.

"It's okay," she whispered.

"How do you feel?" he asked again, fearing she was still under the influence of the drug, despite hours of sleep.

"I feel great," she said, retrieving his hand, pulling it back to her.  "But maybe I should get a second opinion.  Tell me, how do I feel?" she asked.

"You feel great," he just managed to force out.

"You have on way too many clothes," she said, unbuttoning his shirt, alternating between unfastening buttons and kissing the flesh she exposed.  When she had freed him of all of his encumbrances, they held each other as if for dear life – kissing, caressing and rolling in unison across her bed.  They were skin on skin, the heat between them searing every nerve and making them sweat.

* * * * * 

"You bastard!  After all this time.  After all I've done to be with you.  And you betray me like this!"

She slammed her fist down hard on the dashboard, not acknowledging the pain.  Her head whipped back around angrily, and she stared intently at the second-floor apartment, just as she had much of the night, all morning, and several hours this afternoon.  She only took three short breaks in all of that time, driving to the McDonald's down the street to relieve herself and grab a quick meal to go.

It infuriated her each time she returned to Sara's apartment, only to see his car still there.  

"I know that most men only think with their dicks, but I really thought he was different," she spewed bitterly.  "But I guess it's not really his fault.  It's hers.  She's the one who's been flaunting herself at him ever since we met.  I've seen her ... touching him, hovering near him, trying to soak up his essence.  Bitch!  Slut!

"I tried to get you to see the error of your ways when I called the DA's office and told them about you touching him at that crime scene.  Just because you were out back, near the pool, did you think I couldn't see you?  But you just couldn't keep your man-thieving hands off him, could you?  Well, I can understand that, in a way.  He _is_ special, after all.

"But he's mine, and the sooner you realize that, the better, you stupid bitch!  I thought maybe you'd get fired for the psychedelic mushrooms, but I guess he's protecting you.  But I wasn't even trying hard.  If you think he can protect you, missy, think again!"

* * * * * 

"If I don't go now, I never will," Grissom smiled, pulling her closer, running a single finger down the side of her face.

"Will you be back?" Sara asked nervously.  Despite the closeness and comfort they felt after making love, she had begun to fear that he would realize what he'd done and retreat.

"Of course.  Why wouldn't I?"

"I just thought that you might ...  well, you know ... might, I don't know, regret it or something.  You've been resisting getting together for a long time.  You might feel bad about giving in."

"I don't regret it," he assured her, leaning into a gentle brush of the lips.

When he left Sara's house an hour later, he felt like the universe had shifted on its axis.  After all these years, he finally got what he'd wanted and felt like he might actually have a chance to keep it.  

But the unbounded happiness was quickly balanced when he remembered that Sara was still the only suspect in a murder, and even though it was intuitively obvious to all involved that Sara couldn't possibly be guilty, she could still lose her job.

He knew that if she lost her job, she'd still be snatched up by almost any lab in the United States.  He was starting to believe that she really cared for him, but he had no illusions that she would stay with him in Las Vegas without a job at the lab.  He wondered what he'd do if she left.

The last thing on his mind was the silver SUV with darkly tinted windows, parked across the street in a line of cars, two of which looked essentially the same as the SUV she watched him from.  Even once it pulled out behind him, it was just one of thousands of vehicles that looked just the same.  But this one was different, because _she_ was in it, and she was angry.

"I'm tired of playing games with you, Gil Grissom.  I think it's time I show you just how serious I am."  Her anger finally forced her to drive away in a squeal of tires, but not before she had decided that she was no longer Angela Wyeth, but the Angel of Death.


End file.
